Champagne’s climate can be fickle. Of all the fine wine regions around the world it has to be the most unpredictable. Lucie Pereyre de Nonancourt chuckles as she recalls the countless times she has heard the latest vintage described as “unlike any they have seen in 50 years”. She explains: “We hear this all the time. No vintage in Champagne is the same!” It is the region’s capricious nature that dictates the thought process behind Laurent-Perrier’s prestige cuvée, Grand Siècle. A blend of three vintages, all with very different, complementary personalities, the idea is, that when blended together, they capture all the potential qualities a vintage in Champagne is capable of – but are rarely found in one. While Laurent-Perrier is widely recognised as one of the region’s great Champagne houses, Grand Siècle hasn’t necessarily garnered the same sort of attention as other prestige cuvées. Possibly one could argue this is because it is the only non-vintage Grande Marque prestige cuvée – but it is almost definitely because, up until recently, the vintages that made up each new release of Grand Siècle weren’t revealed. That all changed in April 2019 when the house first released Grand Siècle Itération No 24 in bottle and Itération No 22 in magnum – identifying the blend of vintages and what each brought to the blend. Fundamentally each vintage should bring one of the three elements that can typically define a great Champagne year – structure, freshness and elegance or acidity. There have been just 24 different iterations of Grand Siècle since its conception in 1959. Pereyre’s grandfather and Champagne legend Bernard de Nonancourt first had the idea for the cuvée. (It was Bernard who took Laurent-Perrier from a small Champagne house to one of the region’s most recognised brands.) The concept came to him “from observing nature”, says Pereyre. “Champagne has a difficult climate – every harvest is very different but quality is also very different.” The perfect year didn’t exist. For him, a great Champagne was one that has reached aromatic complexity, without losing any of its vivacity and freshness – and that was the aim with Grand Siècle. Bernard’s concept had three rules. Firstly, it should always be made up of three vintages. Secondly, it should always be Chardonnay-dominant – a signature of the Laurent-Perrier house. And thirdly, it must all come exclusively from the Grands Crus of the Côte des Blancs and Montagne de Reims. Speaking with Pereyre, it becomes clear just how much work and time goes into each Itération of Grand Siècle. Each release is 15 years in the making: once all three vintages have been selected, they are blended then spend at least 10 years on lees. The wines do not see any oak and are made as reductively as possible, another key to the cuvée’s freshness. The wine is only released when ready to drink, but Pereyre is confident each has the potential to age 20, 30, even 40 years without losing its vibrancy. As larger-format bottles evolve more slowly, magnums of each Itération are typically released a couple of years later. Pereyre has spent her life in Champagne. Baptised with Grand Siècle as a baby, it seems fitting that today she is charged with the prestige cuvée. Laurent-Perrier is one of the few Grandes Marques still under family ownership. Her mother and aunt took over from her grandfather in 2010, with Peyeyre joining the business in 2019.  Ever since she joined, Pereyre has been training under the watchful eye of Chef de Cave Michel Fauconnet, one of Champagne’s most experienced winemakers. Fauconnet has been working at Laurent-Perrier since 1974 and headed up the winemaking in 2004. He is also the winemaker of the illustrious Salon (also owned by Laurent-Perrier). Fauconnet has Pereyre studying how each parcel tastes, how it develops and how it works in the blend. While Grand Siècle always comes from 11 Grands Crus – Mailly, Ambonnay, Bouzy, Verzy, Verzenay, Tours-sur-Marne in Montagne de Reims, and Cramant, Oger, Mesnil-sur-Oger, Chouilly and Avize in the Côte des Blancs – the proportion in each Itération is different. “The top of the hill versus the bottom can bring very different expressions to each vintage,” says Pereyre. “All the hard work of Champagne is in the blending – every cellar master knows what they have in mind and what style they want to express. Ever since my grandfather created the first Grand Siècle, it has been the cellar master’s job to try to recreate this style – linear, taut, mineral, a lot of acidity, not too open aromatically – but not too acidic and to have some roundness.” It is still very early days for Pereyre, but she is tasting all the time – the only way to learn, and appreciates she is blessed with a great teacher. With the contents of each Itération now in the public domain, the wine is gaining huge scores from the region’s leading critics – perhaps unsurprising given the pedigree of the vineyards and cellar team. Grand Siècle is the greatest expression of Laurent-Perrier’s house style. Browse all Champagne Laurent-Perrier listings

Ahead of the long-awaited release of Grand Siècle Itération No 23 in magnum, we speak to Champagne Laurent-Perrier’s Lucie Pereyre de Nonancourt to find out what’s so special about their prestige cuvée 

We speak to Champagne Laurent-Perrier’s Lucie Pereyre de Nonancourt to find out what’s so special about their prestige cuvée Grand Siècle

Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle and the perfect year

Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle: recreating the perfect year

Each November, the wine world looks to Burgundy for the Hospices de Beaune auction. We dive into the history of this philanthropic institution, the domaine and the wines it produces

Explore the history of Burgundy’s Hotel-Dieu and Hospices de Beaune, its wine estate and the famous annual auction, the Vente des Vins

Your guide to the wines of the Hospices de Beaune

Everything you need to know about the Hospices de Beaune

I was hesitant about meeting Ivan Massonnat. The man who created Domaine Belargus seemed to fill easy stereotypes. A background in private equity. Lived in Paris. A passion for wine – and a dream to make it himself. Big scores and some pretty punchy prices for a brand-new estate from the Loire. Reading between the lines, I feared there was a lot of cash and possibly too much polish. Thankfully, I was wrong.  Created in 2018 and based in Anjou, Domaine Belargus has rapidly become one of fine wine’s hottest new names. The first wines were released in 2021, in the midst of the global pandemic, but had already earned serious acclaim. Yohan Castaing wrote in Decanter, “Remember this name, as its production should meet with resounding critical success in the coming years.” The wines received glowing reviews in Wine Spectator and the Wine Advocate – where Stephan Reinhardt declared it “one of the most spectacular new entries in the history of [the publication]”, granting a coveted 100-point score for its 2018 Quarts de Chaume Ultra. But that was just the beginning. Ivan Massonnat is a man with big plans – both for his own wines, and the region as a whole.  Wine was a part of life for Massonnat from a young age – with his grandfather farming a small vineyard in their village in the Savoie. But, despite helping at harvest time each year, he didn’t end up drinking wine until he was 20, when he was “instantly hooked”, he says. He fell in love with Burgundy and the concept of “vin de lieu” – wine of place.  Massonnat made his money in private equity, based in Paris but travelling the world, where fine dining – and fine wine lists – only fed his terroir obsession. Two decades ago he was looking for a country house for his family, and – not having a car – settled on the Loire. “The more I was spending time there, the more I realised that the region was totally misunderstood,” he says. Prior to the upheaval of the French Revolution and the subsequent arrival of mildew and phylloxera, the Loire was one of France’s most prestigious wine regions – home to the nation’s kings, the fruit of its vines were the royal court’s natural choice. Post-phylloxera, however, quality was scrapped in favour of quantity. “Its image started to blur,” says Massonnat.  Combine the region’s history with its two great, native varieties – Chenin Blanc and Cabernet Franc – and Massonnat saw “an incredible diamond in the rough”. Wine had become an increasingly large part of his life – tasting widely and visiting producers as much as possible, especially in Burgundy where vignerons such as Philippe Pacalet and Thibault Liger-Belair friends and mentors. But it wasn’t just a hobby – Massonnat was starting to think this could be more, the adventure that lay beyond the world of finance.  As the adage goes, the world of wine is a brilliant way to make a small fortune – provided you start out with a large one. Massonnat, however, didn’t underestimate the challenges and set about getting to grips with the mechanics of the business. “It started really to become a project 10 years ago,” he says – talking to importers, consultants, journalists and merchants. And, perhaps unsurprisingly given his successful career, Massonnat wasn’t looking to make any wine – he was determined to create something exceptional.  After a failed attempt to buy a Chinon estate in 2015, he turned his attention to great Chenin Blanc sites in Anjou Noir, between the Layon and Loire rivers – low-yielding hillsides where producers were struggling to make money and consequently there was land to buy. More than just availability, it was here that Massonnat saw great potential. The area’s dark, schist soils (cause for the “noir” in the region’s name) were littered with tiny appellations, echoing those of Burgundy, with a much hillier landscape, and the only Premier and Grand Cru vineyards in the region.  Between 2016 and 2018, Massonnat started visiting every vineyard he could find – looking for the exceptional. Then the local winemaker Patrick Baudouin introduced him to Jo Pithon – a legend of the Loire. Pithon had been making wine since 1978, a pioneer of organic farming, crafting fine dry and sweet wines – but the talented vigneron was by no means a businessman. By the early 2000s, his lack of commercial knowhow lost him the rights to his name, along with the majority of his vineyards – all but one plot, the Coteau des Treilles.  Massonnat met Pithon at the Angers wine fair in 2018; they got on well enough and he arranged to see Pithon’s vineyards the following day. The next morning, it was snowing and he regretted his decision . But then, at 8.32am on 6th February 2018, “It’s as if I was struck by lightning,” Massonnat says. Pithon had brought him to Coteau des Treilles. Long farmed organically, it has slopes at a gradient of 70%, embedded in a natural reserve, with a Mediterranean microclimate – and Massonnat knew instantly it was what he had been looking for. He bought the Pithon-Paillé operation that Jo Pithon had created a decade earlier.  Luck continued to be on Massonnat’s side – and he bought two other vineyards over the next six months, adding to his collection of prime sites. He managed to buy a quarter of the Quarts de Chaume appellation – the only Grand Cru vineyards in the region – which amazingly had been on the market for 10 years. “Nobody wanted to buy it… They were looking at it as a sweet wine terroir. But actually, a great terroir is a great terroir… you will do dry wines that are quite exceptional,” Massonnat explains. Then he snapped up a parcel in Savennières – the only plot to have been sold in the last seven years.  He hired a young team and Pithon stayed on to consult – and the real work began. “Belargus is a 100-year project. Everything we do, we have that horizon,” Massonnat says. The vines are all organically certified, but they’re now working towards biodynamic accreditation. Yields are low, and they’re trying gradually to increase them to around 35hl/ha in a good vintage (currently the highest they’ve managed is 29hl/ha). “Our obsession is to have the right maturity,” Massonnat explains. To battle Chenin Blanc’s natural heterogeneity, they pick in multiple passes, minimum two or three but up to six, depending on the year – and that is just for the dry wines. The general approach is minimalist – with stainless steel and mainly larger, old oak, indigenous yeast, letting malolactic fermentation happen (or not), keeping wines on the lees and using only essential levels of sulphur. A new winery is being planned to take things to the next level, with, for example, a Coquard press (allowing especially gentle pressing, commonly used in Champagne).  The project is about expressing the different terroirs of this corner of Anjou Noir. The first release (which sold almost instantly given the hype from the critics, with 80% exported) consisted of 14 cuvées – nine dry wines and five sweet, focusing on nine specific plots across the estate’s vineyards. The dry wines are powerful, tightly wound and intense – as Massonnat says, “It’s not wine for every day,” comparing them to white Hermitage or Corton-Charlemagne, wines that need food and time. Although 90% of production is dry, Massonnat confesses, “We are obsessed with sweet wines.” These, he feels, are what will really set Anjou Noir on the world stage – if, perhaps, what he calls “the sugar pandemic” ever stops.   With Massonnat’s finance background comes a flexibility that few others have. He hopes to hold all the wines back four years eventually, but for now it is between three and four – and he was able to release the 2020s before the exceptional 2019s. It also allowed him to set prices unusually high compared to his neighbours. “I had the luxury to make that choice for the region,” he explains. “I wanted to break the glass ceiling.” And although he thought it would take time – his first release proved that there were plenty of people ready to snap up the value that these wines offered, including many of those now priced out of Burgundy.  And this is his real dream – for the Loire to be recognised as Burgundy is, as “a tier-one region which any collector needs to have in its cellar, that needs to be understood”. It’s easy to imagine other producers might have bristled at an outsider’s arrival, pitching their very first wines at unheard-of prices; but Massonnat is intent on leading the crusade for the entire region, not just Domaine Belargus. He volunteered to run the Paulée d’Anjou – a celebration of the region’s wines – in 2019, and made it bigger and better. In 2021, he became co-president of the Quarts de Chaume appellation, alongside Marie Guégniard from Domaine de la Bergerie. Together they are fighting for the appellation to permit both dry and sweet wines, as Savennières technically can, and Quarts de Chaume could until 1996. “Anjou was a dirty word. And look at the revolution now,” he says.  Like the precious blue butterfly that gives its name to the Belargus estate, Massonnat isn’t happy sitting still – and he’s already got another project – having had the chance to buy the Chinon estate he’d originally had his eye on in 2015. The best wine he ever tasted was a Chinon, a 1989 from Charles Joguet. “There was a whole civilisation in this wine,” he told me, trying to explain how moving the experience had been. There’s no doubt that Massonnat is a canny businessman, but his vision is extraordinary – and one that he seems set to realise.  Explore all current listings of Domaine Belargus or read more Editorial 

Since it was created in 2018, Domaine Belargus has become a name to watch. Sophie Thorpe sat down with Ivan Massonnat, the man behind the project, to find out more about the Anjou estate and his vision for the region

With top reviews for its first releases, Anjou estate Domaine Belargus has become a name to watch. We sat down with founder Ivan Massonnat to find out more

Talking to Domaine Belargus’s Ivan Massonnat

The archangel of Anjou: Ivan Massonnat

Wine, though the most intimate of pleasures, lends itself to the most expansive of texts. We drink wine most often – tastings aside – in pairings of two, or in lonesome but agreeable solitude, and, its narcotic pleasure being felt internally, we feel its effects as we feel a fever: almost secretly, in shivers. Though wine is like sex in its intimacy, unlike sex, the form in which we fetishise wine – our vine erotica – is not hushed and illicit but encyclopedic. On the shelves of any wine drinker, there are likely to be catalogues, dictionaries organised by region, old Parker buying guides some 600 pages long that somehow, though dated, can’t be discarded.  Wine seems singular among human pleasures in this. We don’t, as a rule, rush from reading a poem to great anthologies of poetry, or add to the savour of seeing a play by reading a big atlas of dramatic literature – not, at least, after we graduate from school. Sports fans, it’s true, like big books of statistics, but then sports-watching is a social act in the first instance – the more people in the stands, the merrier the occasion. With wine, we like the macro with our micro: with a solitary glass in hand, we look, in print, over the next hill, or the current vintage, at the vineyard across the way, or the vintage yet to come. It’s part of the pleasure the glass provides. The reasons for this micro and macro turn are, on reflection, commercial and artisanal as much as aesthetic. The business of wine needs a big picture of its domain, its resources, and its potential market – scale sets the stage for commerce. The makers of wine like to place themselves on a broader map of where wine is and what it’s made with. The great Bordeaux classification of 1855 is not just the noblest public monument to a beverage ever attempted, but a model of market-making and even market price-fixing. Once a hierarchy of growths has been established, it is easy to slot in the price tags. But there is a truth of taste beneath the ordering of value. With wine, we know that what we are experiencing is, however singular, still an intersection of opposed forces – as the peerless wine writer Jancis Robinson MW says of her first glass of Chambolle-Musigny 1959; “I knew at once that there was something in the glass that was sensually delicious but that it was also made, produced, and therefore suggested a history of intellect and discernment.” The pleasure of wine is the crossing of a place, a grape and a people; and so, we turn to the big books to frame the small pleasures.  What distinguishes wine from even a good glass of ale or a local brew is the specificity of the pleasure set against the scale of the system that made it – one that historically embraces the planet. It’s a First Growth, or a domaine Burgundy, or a Ridge Zinfandel or a New Zealand Pinot Noir made to a Burgundy model by American wine makers … the more we know, the more we’re free to feel. Most sensory pleasures are specific to the point of being illicit – aside from the bemused fetishist, romance is a spontaneous pleasure, often aided, to be sure, by a systematic wine. Wine is premeditated; we choose a bottle, let it ripen, and break it open. Even casual table drinking has a tale to tell, a journey to trace on a map. These thoughts are brought to mind in contemplation of Wine Grapes, the monosyllabically titled but unprecedentedly expansive dictionary of grape varieties grown to be crushed and fermented on this green planet. Authored by Robinson, along with Julia Harding MW and the geneticist Dr José Vouillamoz, it marks an epoch – several epochs – in our understanding of wine, from both a professional planet-straddling and an amateur glass-in-hand perspective. A book of its time (published in 2012), it was made possible, in part, by a revolution in the DNA analysis of wine grapes to help discover their origins and histories.  The DNA profiling of wine grapes only began in 1993, and the first ‘paternity test’ successfully concluded in 1997 – a mere few days ago by historical perspective – with specialists, Dr Vouillamoz among them, drawing astonishing Darwinian lines among seemingly unrelated grapes. Zinfandel, it has been discovered in the last 40 years, is not only the Siamese twin of Primitivo, but its Croatian Siamese twin. In proper Darwinian fashion, the book tells us, “It looks increasingly as though an enormous proportion of the grapes we know today are members of a few key families.”  The leading families of wine, Pinot and Nebbiolo and the rest, like the leading houses of Westeros, jostle and engage in incestuous inter-breeding as they move towards dominance. As Jancis Robinson admits, the quest for the origins of grapes can become surprisingly emotional. “The Zin quest is so … heated. There was a Zinfandel conference in Croatia, with all the great Zin makers, even Joel ‘King of Zin’ Peterson from Ravenswood, and we all had to present our various things about Zinfandel. There was a small cohort of people from Montenegro who reckoned that their variety – whose name is unpronounceable – was the true progenitor of modern Zinfandel, not the Croatian one. It became so … Balkan! And you know what? They may be right!” Wine Grapes is of its time in another sense as well, marking the moment when we have started to think of wine not solely in terms of region, but much more in terms of variety, with the semi-mystical term ‘terroir’ acting as a kind of Holy Spirit between them. Thinking ‘grape’ more than ‘place’ releases our imaginations. The wholesome instructive pleasures of the book, to which we’ll come, shrink beside the unwholesome, guilty pleasures of turning the pages to meet the failures among grapes – the near-misses, the long-forgotten and forlorn lost toys – which please more than the patterns of primacy. The pleasure of reading about the grapes whose juice we do drink is nothing compared to reading about those we don’t. In dictionaries, oddities and parentheses fascinate us more than the major entries. No one turns to the dictionary to study ‘and’; we go to study ‘antediluvian’. So, turning these pages, flipping through the P’s on our way to encounter the great Pinot families, we come upon the lesser gods, even the little misshapen gnomes and dwarves of the wine world, and we delight in meeting them. (A fascination added to by the forthright sub-heads the editors provide.) On our way to Burgundy and Pinot Noir, we also meet Pinotin, a ‘recent obscure Swiss hybrid’ which edges into Pionnier, ‘a minor but complex, cold-hardy American hybrid used in blends in Québec’, and, of course, Pinotage ‘South Africa’s very own cross, both loved and despised’, which leads us on to Pugnitello and even Pukhliakovsky (a Russian variety ‘with erratic yields producing light wines’) and even unto Pules – ‘a minor Albanian white’. Radiating out from five pages on the major Merlot, we bump into Merseguera, ‘an uninspiring variety’ from Spain, and Merzifon Karasi, and Merzling, dismissed as a ‘very minor disease-resistant German hybrid’. Why these lost or obscure kinds of grapes bring so much delight with them is a fascinating question. It has in part to do with our general appetite for oddities and obscurities, which once produced ‘freak shows’ and still makes us fascinated with archaic musical instruments: we are curious to hear the sackbut because we want to know what led to the trombone. It is also the virtuous case that variety is the safeguard of continuity. In an age of ever-decreasing biodiversity with just a few varieties taking the place of many possibilities, one Quixotic California winemaker, driving through the fields of Cabernet and Chardonnay, dismissed them all – with a wave of the hand – as “chocolate and vanilla, chocolate and vanilla”.  The health of the planet is safeguarded by the persistence of so many kinds. It is also because the existence of these minor yet still thriving varieties gives us a satisfying picture of adaptation, the central biological act. Each of these grapes has found a home in the world. It may not be much of a home, but then neither, face the facts, is ours. We identify with the unknown grape. We are all more like a very minor disease-resistant German, or a cold-hardy Québec hybrid, than we are something noble and complicated. Few of us are bottles of Burgundy; we can all identify as minor Albanian whites. In conversation, Jancis Robinson, sheltering at home near Kings Cross in London, a home with a view of a graveyard (though a cheerful one she assures an interviewer) – talks of the wine almanac with the blunt enthusiasm that marks her writing. Robinson, in addition to her obvious honours and credentials, is a rare thing in the wine world, or any world: a writer who writes with equal parts brio and expertise. She explains the origins of Wine Grapes. “What happened was that one of the co-authors, Dr José Vouillamoz, who had been at University of California, Davis, felt that he needed to earn more of a living, and came back to Switzerland and got a job working on Alpine botanicals. But he didn’t want to lose his relationship with wine, and he came to me and said that he’d like to collaborate on a book about grape varieties. I’d already written one in 1986, based on our very fractional knowledge then.  Over lunch, I took along Julia Harding, a wine writer who works on my website. She’s extremely punctilious.” (Robinson, punctilious herself, says this with such emphasis that the listener feels that, with Harding, we must be talking about new frontiers, not to say dimensions, in punctiliousness.) “She had exactly the right sort of brain for a project like this. José suggested that we focus on the 10 or 12 most planted grape varieties to help simplify it. I thought that that book didn’t sound interesting enough. I waited until we were quite far down a bottle of Valpolicella and said, ‘I think our book should be about every single grape variety we can find.’ He gulped and said, ‘Then that’s what we shall do!’” The idea of creating a ‘perfect map’ of a subject is one of the itches that govern modern life. John James Audubon set out to describe not the major but every bird and beast in North America, and that’s what he did. Similar ‘almanacs of everything’ fill our botanical and anthropological shelves. It is an ambition so tied to modernity that in the mid-19th century, Lewis Carroll perfectly satirised it in his novel, Sylvie & Bruno, where two mad professors talk about their dream of making a map that would be on a one-to-one relation to the actual world – utterly perfect, if impossible to unroll. “I loved the scale of the thing,” Robinson says of her perfect map. “So, we carved things up: José did all the DNA stuff and history because he had good access to it, Julia, bless her, did the footwork – how much of each grape is planted where – while trying to taste as many as possible, too! And I wrote the entries on the best-known varieties, and the introduction and read every single word.  As with any dictionary, we used what came before: we went through appellation lists, with all of the varieties allowed, some of them almost extinct. A nice little detail of the book is that we persuaded the publisher that it should have some colour plates, and we were particularly keen to include the plates from the world’s first oenological book, L’Ampélographie: Traité Général de Viticulture, of 1901 … just out of copyright!” She pauses. “Of course,” she adds reflectively, “it was José, naturally, who discovered that Pinot and Syrah are related.” The offhand nature of her mention can’t conceal the significance of the remark. Of all the discoveries offered in the book, this is perhaps, for the amateur wine drinker, the most exemplary and astonishing. Painstakingly tracing the DNA heritage of the varieties, these two noble houses, Syrah and Pinot – the grapes of the Rhône Valley and those of Burgundy, the heart of Côte-Rôtie and the soul of Chambertin – are unified as cousins. This happened not through willed cultivation but in the natural evolutionary way: through variation and adaptation. Initially, the elegance of Pinot Noir was transformed through the usual evolutionary pressures of place and mutations, into the earthy pleasures of Syrah.  Chance mutation and lucky planting turned one grape into its near opposite. (‘Cross-fertilisation’, we’re told, ‘was common until the early 20th century because several grape varieties were often intermixed in the vineyards, facilitating natural crossings between distinct grape varieties’.) The phylloxera epidemic in France from the 1860s on – though it did not destroy as much as is sometimes thought – acted as a kind of sieve or filter of grape varieties, a sort of extinction event in large-scale natural history, forcing hard choices and making obscure varieties less desirable to save by root grafting with New World vines.   One virtue of the book is to propose, in effect, a new order of wines by celebrating ‘secondary’ grape varieties. “For me, among the obscure wines, something about as well-known as Cinsault stands out – it can make such lovely wines,” Robinson says. “There’s been such a sea change as the century turned. Everybody once wanted to make fruit bombs to one of three standard recipes. Then in this century, higher acidity, lighter wines are finally revaluing, and so Cinsault comes into its own. “Sometimes I come across a grape that isn’t well known but that’s so obviously superior. There’s Aglianico – the name suggests it’s Greek, though no Greek variety has ever been found and you only get it in Southern Italy. Perfect for late ripeness, and not for cool climates – and now it has travelled to Australia, where they’re desperate for hot weather varieties.  The whole array of Portuguese and Greek grape varieties are so fantastic! And so individual. And I love that after a dalliance with international varieties, both countries are now celebrating their own. There’s another white grape, an Iberian variety that’s stunning, and, again, I’m not sure it’s yet been planted much: Godello! It’s a bit crass to say it makes wines that taste like Montrachet, if a little more terroir-y and mineral … but it does. I could drink Cinsault for red and Godello for white into the next century. “There’s such a gap nowadays,” Robinson goes on, “between the Napa Cab thing, and these young people who are buying unknown grape varieties that sell for a fraction of the price, that are really good. Such a lot has happened in the field of recuperating old vines, some so obscure that they don’t even have a name. Miguel Torres, the scion of that great company in northeast Spain became very interested in grapes.  At first, he said, ‘Hey Dad, we need the posh varieties, Cabernet and Chardonnay’ – and made all these wines which did well in the Judgement of Paris. But, with time, he realised that it made more sense to concentrate on the indigenous varieties. He’s been engaged for 30 years, putting classified ads in the local press – ‘If you know of a wine grape that you can’t identify, let us know of it, and – if we think we can propagate out – we’ll do micro-vinification.’ He’s actually rescued Catalan varieties that were on the brink of disappearing; I think he found 30 varieties, and recuperated eight for micro-vinification with sufficient character to give them a new lease of life. And much the same thing has been happening all over Italy. If we published the book today, we’d be up to at least 1,500 kinds of grapes.” The great sorting question of our time, of course, is the question of climate change and its effects on wine cultivation. Robinson is cautiously hopeful about Burgundy. “I was lucky enough to go there and spend some time. The 2020 harvest is the earliest ever, at least since the 14th century. But, whereas the 2003 vintage, that legendary hot summer in France, produced wines that were pretty bizarre, the 2019s seem as fresh as a daisy, with pure fruit. I’m no plant biologist, but the vines seem to be getting used to the conditions … or the winemakers are. They’re not extracting as heavily, but, given that, there’s no sign of added acidity (it’s routinely added in the southern hemisphere), the acidity is coming from the grapes as well. Even some real old Burgundy hands, when you ask why the wines are so fresh, say, ‘I really don’t know.’” About the Southern Rhône, though, she is more pessimistic. “They’re not helping themselves in the Southern Rhône: too many are trying to make concentrated, high alcohol, 16% wines. And maybe consultants are too powerful down there – one consultant can be responsible for 20 or 30 labels, and so you’re going to have 20 or 30 wines that reflect that.” It’s here, though, that the knowledge of grapes, and our possession of this specialist dictionary, seems particularly valuable. If wine is to save itself from the vagaries of climate change, it will probably be through the introduction and new use of ‘marginal’ or forgotten ‘heirloom’ grapes. Only recently, France’s Institut National de l’Origine et de la Qualité (INAO) officially approved six new varieties: four red grapes – Arinarnoa, Castes, Marselan, and Touriga Nacional; and two whites – Alvarinho and Liliorila – all described as ‘well-adapted to alleviate hydric stress associated with temperature increases and shorter growing cycles’, potential saviours of the region against the villain of global warming. All of them, of course, are charted and explicated in Wine Grapes.

In the end, the great strange truth of wine is the truth of life: a thousand vectors press down on us at once – place, history, time, temperature, luck and breeding – and somehow in the intersection we find, or make, our pleasures. The question of type and variation was very different before Darwin who wrote, oddly (or perhaps not so oddly) almost simultaneously with the great classification of Bordeaux, publishing On the Origin of Species in 1859.  (Oddly because his theory would have been true in any other time; not so oddly because the urge to map the world, for the ‘almanac of everything’, was typical of mid-19th century confidence, as Carroll’s satire suggests.) Before Darwin, who loved wine, the fundamental view of the world was that the superintending categories, species and varieties, were the fixed things in the world. Everyone took it for granted that the ‘kind’ the ‘essence’, was the real thing and all the little variants merely particular shades away from it. A grape was a better or worse instance of its variety. Grapes, like apes, were of one fixed sort. Darwin’s great overriding insight was that only particulars exist, and that species and superintending categories are the labile and ever-changing kinds. Every kind of living thing came from somewhere weird and is on its way to somewhere weirder, with a brief stopover at being the thing it is now. The elegance of Pinot Noir is a close cousin of the earthiness of Syrah, one state is simply a moment in the life of the other, and each are moments in the life of the surging, unfixable whole. Wine, braiding through the planet and only coming to rest on a name for a moment in one place, is a bit of scientific epistemology in your glass, the truth of the particular made potable. It’s a fine destiny for a simple pleasure. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One Photography by Gavin Bond; floral set design by Studio Lupine

Essayist and author Adam Gopnik takes a look at the world of wine through the lens of seminal wine-lover’s bible, Wine Grapes, and talks to one of its three co-authors, Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

Adam Gopnik talks to Wine Grapes co-author Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

FONDATA: Pleasure in the detail

Pleasure in the detail

Perrier Jouet

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