There are times when you put a question to a winemaker and he puffs out his cheeks and rubs his chin and you know he’s thinking, ‘Journalists.’ When I ask Promontory’s David Cilli what exactly is meant by ‘interpretation of terroir’, he courteously describes the process of trying to get the wine to reflect the character of the land. But he gives the impression my question was like quizzing Monet on how he got his effects. If you don’t get it, you probably won’t. The character of Promontory, on the day I visit, is quite something. It’s early May and the rain, which has been falling steadily all night, has turned to a lashing downpour that has raindrops bouncing six inches off the windscreen. We’re in a jeep piloted by winegrowing director Cory Empting and since turning off the main road we’ve been climbing steadily through dripping stands of oak with pocket-handkerchief vineyards between them. ‘Shall we stay in the car?’ asks Empting. ‘If we could,’ Will Harlan suggests from the back seat. I’m here with Empting, Cilli and Harlan. Bill Harlan has appeared briefly but I don’t see him again until we sit down to taste. He formally handed over control of Harlan Estate, Promontory, Bond and The Mascot in 2021, appointing 37-year-old Will managing director. Cilli (44) arrived in 2012 and is in charge of vineyard and winemaking at Promontory. Promontory is an 840-acre fastness, a deep valley folded into the foothills of Mount Veeder, on the west side of the Napa Valley. From the highway, you think the looming ridge you’re looking at is the edge of Sonoma. But there’s another ridge beyond and between them this interesting domain. It’s remote, even by Napa standards (contrary to opinion, there are plenty of wild spaces in the county). The ultra-refined French Laundry is a couple of miles away but it might be in Wisconsin for all the relevance it has up here. Bill Harlan had come upon it hiking in the 1980s. ‘I used the Carmelite monastery [we’d passed it on the way up] as a base and just started climbing’. There were no vines but he was intrigued by its seclusion. It might be possible vineland for the Napa project he had in mind. In the end, Harlan Estate was founded less than a mile to the north but for 25 years Harlan kept the idea of that parcel tucked under his hat (he never mentioned it, Will says) before it came on the market in 2007 and he snapped it up. "Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir" The owner – the Harlans don’t reveal who that is – had planted 80-odd acres of Cabernet Sauvignon. It was neglected, the vines overgrown. Trees had been felled and never collected. ‘It was a mess,’ Will says. ‘It looked like a logging operation.’ But it is magnificent. Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir. The whole estate is thickly forested, the vines often shaded on three sides. An old drovers’ road, running through the woods, will suddenly open out on a wide vista of vineyard and scree. Everything is deeply, lushly green in the steadily falling spring rain. The geology of the land is unusual, in that it rests on two distinct fault lines and consists of all three soil types that are found in Napa: volcanic, sedimentary and metamorphic. ‘You get all three in the same soil pit,’ Cilli notes. This, combined with the wild variation in aspect and the microclimate of the valley-within-a-valley, gives credence to Harlan’s claims that this part of Napa is like nowhere else in California. When the celebrated soil scientists Claude and Lydia Bourguignon came, they found the experience ‘novel’. Cilli said he fell in love with Promontory at first sight. It reminded him, in part, of his native Tuscany, but it was the wildness that captivated him, ‘I love that character that you can see in the wines.’ He said it was probably ‘the only project that could keep me in the valley.’ You get the impression none of them can quite believe their luck. ‘It somehow redefined what looks beautiful,’ Will says. It also redefined their ideas of winemaking. He goes on: ‘We were used to control. Harlan in the 1990s was obsessed with organisation and uniformity but Promontory was wild.’ The theme of wildness recurs. Harvest times are key to ‘find a way for it to come through,’ Will says. Empting: ‘Pick too late and you lose the ruggedness.’ Ageing, in the magnificent Howard Backen-designed chai, is all in Stockinger Austrian oak barrels ranging in size from 10,000 to 46,000 litres, for up to 36 months. ‘The fine-yet-tight tannins required longer barrel-ageing but [we] didn’t want the wine to be overpowered by new oak’. It’s a constant process of refinement and improvement – ‘we learn something new each season’. Empting: ‘It has blown every expectation out of the water. We were excited and we were scared. We didn’t know what this beast would be. Our learning curve has been very steep, it remains very steep. At least now we’re starting to get our arms around it but at the beginning, it was like: God, we cannot figure this thing out.” "I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness" You have to remember we’re talking about winemaking here, not Wittgenstein. But ‘interpretation of terroir’, if it’s to mean anything at all, should be taken seriously. I’ve seen vineland all over the world – rock-strewn fields in the Andean foothills, rainless Spanish deserts – but I’ve never seen anything like Promontory. Were I to be tasked with bottling the soul of that vineyard, I’d reach for metaphor as well. And so we come to the missing shade of blue. This is the concept propounded by the 18th-century philosopher David Hume, that an idea can be formulated without a previous sensory impression to give rise to it. He asked, Could a shade of blue missing from a spectrum be imagined by an observer? Harlan says (with a smile – he does have a degree in philosophy) that Promontory is the missing shade of red. ‘Until you’ve seen and experienced it, you don’t know that it’s missing. And so for us this was that final piece. The piece that wasn’t there that we had the opportunity to understand and try to translate into the wine.’ The next morning, in gorgeous May sunshine, we gather to taste. It’s almost the same group, though smaller, that did the mighty vertical of Harlan estate from magnum in 2020. Bill Harlan is there (he sweetly thanks the team for allowing him to taste, saying it’s the first full vertical of Promontory he’s ever done), Will, Empting, Cilli and the journalist Elaine Brown. We wonder, at the end, if there is thread that runs through the wines. In my notes the words ‘deceptively light’ recur, as do ‘structure’ and ‘stone’. Reaching for metaphor again, Will Harlan compares the structure of the 2016 to cathedral stone, which has ‘both weight and lightness. It’s intricately carved and light filters through the windows.’ I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness. Will Harlan calls this vintage an ‘inflection point’ and notes how the tannins are the ‘main differentiators’. Yes, agrees Cilli, ‘and because of the character of levity and lift, we have to be precise with the tannins.’ The younger vintages have an astonishing latent energy, tannins under tight rein, aromas bursting, the fruit compacted. Brown and I were struck not by the sophistication of these wines but by their honesty. Brown WhatsApped me later. ‘Promontory is the most transparent to place. The wines are impressively well crafted and elegant while still offering an almost wild or primal complex of flavours.’ "The wines are unmistakeably Californian but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa" ‘How do we take wine from a wilderness and have sophistication?’ Will asked. It’s a great question – with their resources, the Harlans could do anything they liked with Promontory. After all, they have to make a wine that will please their audience. But this was so unexpected. The tasting revealed a keen focus on the land and the vintage. The difference between the years was often marked – the challenge of 2015 for example showed in the wine – yet we could see that common thread running through, even as the wines increased in elegance. And what of Will’s quest for the missing shade of red? The wines are unmistakeably Californian – that splendid 2017 could come from nowhere else – but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa, which is quite a claim, in the world’s most cultivated wine region. Perhaps the last word should go to Bill Harlan, who started the whole thing. He speaks hardly at all during the tasting, his Old Testament face giving little away. At the end of the morning, he talks of his fascination with the ‘ongoing discovery’ of the project. The wines have character, layers and depth, he says, and – by way of praising their authenticity – he notes, ‘You never know what’s coming next.’

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites, with a vertical tasting of 14 vintages revealing the wild beauty, elegance and remarkable evolution of its wines.

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites.

Wildness captured: tasting 14 vintages of Promontory

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  

Group CEO Patrick O’Connor reflects on Bordeaux 2025: a hot, dry and early vintage defined by small yields, precise viticulture, restrained winemaking and a new wave of estates delivering wines of real distinction.

Patrick O’Connor, Group CEO, explores Bordeaux 2025: a hot, dry, early vintage shaped by precision, small yields and standout wines.

Bordeaux 2025 en primeur: vintage overview      

Bordeaux 2025: vintage overview               

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

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

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

Natural Wine’s Influence on Burgundy

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

General impressions Feedback from clients and staff aligned around one key observation: 2023 is more approachable than expected. The vintage’s moderate alcohol, ripe Merlot, and fresh acidity make many wines accessible even at this young stage. While some still need time, the overall impression was of balance rather than power. The focus is medium-term drinking for maximum confidence and reward. The Right Bank was widely viewed as the stronger side, echoing early commentary from en primeur reports. Pomerol and Saint-Émilion wines displayed generous fruit and fine tannins, while Left Bank estates were more varied, producing both classic structured wines and some leaner examples. FINE+RARE’s en primeur analysis described 2023 as “a vintage defined by equilibrium.” The bottled wines seem to confirm that view: consistent, expressive, and shaped by freshness rather than extraction.  Right Bank highlights In Pomerol, Clinet and Gazin were among the most admired, showing ripe fruit and supple texture. In Saint-Émilion, Canon, Canon la Gaffelière, Clos Fourtet, Troplong Mondot, and Valandraud stood out. Valandraud, as expected, was the powerful wine of the night, while Canon and Fourtet impressed for their precision and length. Beau Séjour Bécot also received great feedback — a reassuring note for those who secured it en primeur. Left Bank highlights The Left Bank produced a number of notable successes, though with more variation across communes. Léoville Barton and Lynch Bages were two of the most consistently praised wines for their depth and classical balance.

Pichon Comtesse, which many had admired from barrel, was again among the favourites and considered by some to be even more complete in bottle. Other highlights included Pichon Baron, Rauzan Ségla, Les Carmes Haut Brion, Brane Cantenac, Duhart Milon, and Domaine de Chevalier.

Smith Haut Lafitte Blanc also earned strong reactions for its freshness and clarity. Sauternes and Barsac The sweet wines drew particular attention. Several tasters named them the stars of the evening, with Suduiraut widely described as exceptional – rich, poised, and long. Coutet also impressed for its balance of sweetness and acidity. The general view was that 2023 marks another successful year for Sauternes and Barsac, following two strong vintages. Conversations with producers A recurring theme in discussions with château representatives was comparison between recent years. Many cited 2022 as their standout vintage of the decade, particularly on the Right Bank, with 2016 also frequently mentioned. Summary For both clients and colleagues, the evening confirmed that 2023 is a vintage of clarity and balance, with Right Bank wines especially convincing. The Left Bank offers several strong classical examples, and Sauternes continues an excellent run. In short, 2023 should not be viewed as a blockbuster but as a measured, consistent, and thoughtful vintage – one that speaks more of balance and terroir than of scale. It will be interesting to see how these wines continue to settle in bottle over the next few years. FINE+RARE extends sincere thanks to the Union des Grands Crus de Bordeaux and all the participating producers and their representatives for sharing their remarkable wines. Our gratitude also goes to the event team from Otaria, and to Fromagerie, who supplied exceptional cheeses for all our attending guests and helped make the evening such a success. Read our full Bordeaux 2023 vintage report and browse all wines featured in the tasting.

This year’s UGCB tasting at Lindley Hall brought together Bordeaux’s leading estates and a record FINE+RARE audience. The atmosphere was vibrant, with engaged guests and wines that revealed both the highs and limits of the 2023 vintage across Left and Right Banks.  

Last week's UGCB tasting at Lindley Hall showcased Bordeaux 2023, revealing both the strengths and subtleties of the vintage across Left and Right Banks.

UGCB in London: Tasting Bordeaux 2023

I first sat down with winemaker Chris Phelps almost two years ago, diving into his remarkable journey. Having worked at the likes of Dominus, Caymus and Inglenook, it was chance – or maybe fate – that led him to establish his own wine label, Ad Vivum, in 2007.  He was sitting above a tank of just-fermenting fruit when he was struck by a “coup de foudre” – falling instantly for Sleeping Lady Vineyard, a site farmed by his good friend Larry Bettinelli. He bought the half-fermented must, and has continued to do so every vintage since.  The specific blocks that filled that tank sat up against the Mayacamas at the very top of the vineyard, which is the southernmost site in Yountville. Here, the vines are shielded from the blaze of the afternoon sun, preserving acidity and aromatics in the fruit, while a flow of underground water allows the site to thrive in even the driest of years. Each year, from just 1.5 acres of Cabernet Sauvignon, Phelps crafts another expression of the site.  The exact parcels have shifted very slightly over time. In 2007, the vines were all Clone 191 – the clone he felt was best on the site, but the block needed replanting so they started using fruit from an adjacent plot, planted with Clone 7. After a “carefully thought-out dance” balancing the two plots, the 2024 vintage marks a return to using fruit only from the original plot, now replanted with Clone 191 (and known as Clone 34, which is genetically identical to 191).  Phelps left his day job (working for other wineries) at the end of 2023, finally able to focus exclusively on Ad Vivum, as well as a newer project with his son Josh (Coil Wines). Although we’d tasted the current releases before, earlier this month we were able to taste a trio of back-vintages for the first time. They reinforced how special this site is, as well as Phelps’s talent when it comes to capturing it in bottle.  The three vintages we tasted were 2016, 2017 and 2018 – three very different years in Napa. All three, however, manage to combine great freshness with Napa polish – creating wines that are surprisingly approachable already.  2016 Ad Vivum  In Phelps’s words, 2016 was “a classic Napa vintage”; the weather was warm at the end of June, allowing the vines to focus on fruit ripening, while autumn brought cooler weather. Phelps harvested from 7th October, fermenting in 21% new French oak (the rest in stainless steel), with a total of 19 days on skins prior to maturation for 18 months in 65% new French oak. It has always had “a seamlessness”, Phelps noted, and that’s certainly true tasting the wine.  The nose offers sweet, dark fruit, graphite purity and hints of lifted florals as well as an herbaceous edge. The palate is linear and pure, with mouthwatering acidity and a savoury core of ripe fruit, sweet cassis and ripe tannins that provide a drying grip on the finish. Although the oldest of this mini-vertical, it almost feels the youngest and will certainly benefit from additional time in bottle. A blend of 56% Clone 7 and 44% Clone 191 Cabernet Sauvignon.   2017 Ad Vivum  The 2017 vintage is one that will forever be remembered for its wildfires in Napa, although fortunately Ad Vivum wasn’t impacted by them. After an early budbreak, the growing season was marked by three heatwaves – in mid-June, at the end of August and in mid-September. Having a cooler site, shaded from afternoon sun and with sufficient water reserves was key for Phelps. He harvested from 5th October, bringing in 55% Clone 191 and 45% Clone 7 Cabernet. It was fermented in 25% new French oak, spending 20 days on skins in total (Phelps noted how easily colour and tannin came in this hot vintage), before being aged 17 months in 70% new French oak.  The nose here is bright and perfumed, combining sweet dark fruit – black cherries and blackcurrant – with floral lift and pencil lead. There’s a glorious purity to the fruit here, which follows through onto the dense yet fresh palate, displaying a juicy elegance. There’s a satisfying chew to the tannins, firm yet velvet-like, framing the waves of fruit that flow towards to the long, saline finish. Mouthwatering and moreish, this is hard to resist now.  2018 Ad Vivum  Although the 2018 vintage in Napa started with relatively late budbreak, cooler, even temperatures made for a long growing season, and producing relatively plentiful yields – yet without any dilution, thanks to the extended season. Phelps harvested from 17th October, with the blend moving back towards around two thirds Clone 191 Cabernet from the original block and a third Clone 7. Fermented in 25% new French oak, Phelps left the 2018 on skins for 23 days – slightly longer than other vintages, feeling structured fruit needed more time to reach its potential, echoed with its maturation in 75% new oak for 20 months. Phelps notes how generous this wine has been from the beginning, but has developed further opulence and depth in bottle.  This is a beautiful wine: the nose is intense, exuberant with dark fruit and a satisfying herbaceous edge. Although the blackcurrant and black plum fruit is beautifully ripe and smooth, there’s bright acidity that brings gorgeous freshness – making for a lithe and vibrant palate. The tannins are round and sleek, lending effortless structure, while there’s a saline, savoury edge to the long finish.    Explore all current Ad Vivum listings, including a mixed case of 2016, 2017 and 2018, or read more about California   

Since 2007, Chris Phelps has been working with just 1.5 acres of Cabernet Sauvignon in Sleeping Lady Vineyard in Yountville. The resulting wine is Ad Vivum, a beautiful expression of this special site. We sat down with Phelps to taste through a mini-vertical of the project 

Exploring Chris Phelps’s Ad Vivum Napa Cabernet Sauvignon wine from Yountville’s Sleeping Lady Vineyard through three vintages, 2016, 2017 and 2018 

Tasting Ad Vivum Napa Cabernet Sauvignon – 2016-2018 

Tasting Ad Vivum: 2016-2018  

The Thienponts reign over Bordeaux’s Right Bank. At Vieux Château Certan, Alexandre Thienpont – almost always dressed in his Barbour – rules, producing Pomerol of immaculate pedigree, as his family has for over a century now. Nearby, cousin Jacques Thienpont holds court at Le Pin, Pomerol’s original cult address. Nicolas Thienpont is another cousin whose domain stretches out from Saint-Emilion – from Pavie Macquin and Larcis Ducasse across to several estates in the Côte des Francs. And the dynasty continues to grow, as each thread of this complex family finds a new corner of the region to master.  The Flemish family has a long history in the world of wine, having traded French wine (especially Bordeaux) since 1842. Georges Thienpont – grandfather of Jacques, Alexandre and Nicolas) was the first to move into production, buying Ch. Troplong Mondot in 1921, then Vieux Château Certan in 1924. It wasn’t long before the Great Depression hit, however, and Georges Thienpont was forced to sell Troplong Mondot in 1934. Reportedly the only reason he kept Vieux Château Certan was that no one wanted to buy it – with vines holding little allure at the time. It was the château itself at Troplong Mondot, positioned at the highest point in the region and with a view across the village of Saint-Emilion, that allowed him to sell the Saint-Emilion estate. Georges continued to make wine through the Second World War and the devastating frost of 1956. Despite a challenging start, “VCC” (as it is affectionately known by wine-lovers) has become one of Bordeaux’s leading names.  It was Jacques Thienpont, however, who thrust the family firmly into the limelight. It was in 1979 that Jacques, then still a Belgian wine merchant, purchased a 1.6-hectare vineyard in Pomerol. The site had produced generic Pomerol, but Jacques started making tiny volumes of opulently styled wine, naming it after the lone pine tree (“le pin”) that stood on the property. The 1982 vintage was pivotal, receiving significant critical acclaim – especially from Robert Parker – and soon Le Pin became one of the world’s most desirable wines.  Just over 30 years after that first vineyard purchase, it seemed like fate when Jacques went to see a plot of land in Saint-Emilion right next to Troplong Mondot. Previously known as Ch. Haut-Plantey, the potential of the site was clear to Jacques and the symmetry of the Thienponts returning to where their family’s winemaking legacy began seemed fitting. He bought the property in 2010 and put Cyrille Thienpont (his cousin once removed) in charge of its daily running. In keeping with the arboreal theme, he named the Saint-Emilion venture L’If (the yew tree).  The first project the team undertook was a detailed soil map to get to grips with the site. The winery is in Saint-Laurent-des-Combes, just to the east of Troplong Mondot, with five hectares of vineyard around it and another two hectares of west-facing vines next to Saint-Hippolyte. The lower parcels are more eroded and sandier, but much of the vineyard sits on pure limestone and clay. They set about restructuring the vineyard – getting rid of the 5% Cabernet Sauvignon and increasing the portion of Cabernet Franc, with around 25% across the property today (any new plantings were with a massal selection from Pavie Macquin).  In 2013, Jacques bought another hectare or so of vines in Saint-Etienne-de-Lisse, right next to Ch. Puy-Blanquet. Despite the quality of the soils, Jacques was hesitant about buying such a “distant” plot, a whopping three kilometres as the crow flies – or a circa 10-minute drive. They pulled the vines out and replanted this additional parcel, harvesting its first fruit in 2018. Despite its youth, the fruit from the plot has made it into the final blend for every vintage of L’If since 2020 (“Worth the trip,” jokes Cyrille). Even with the significant replanting and this new plot, the average age of vines across the estate is around 40 – with the oldest over 60 years in age.  Work on a new winery finished just in time for the 2023 harvest, allowing greater precision and flexibility – with more space to work (and 16 concrete tanks for their eight hectares of vines). You might expect a flashy building, perhaps designed by a famous architect – but that’s not the Thienpont way. Understatement is everything for this family – and the winery is an almost exact replica of what stood there before, simply with more space inside, designed for simple functionality. In one corner stands an otherwise anonymous stainless-steel tank – the first one that Jacques bought for Le Pin back in 1979.  It was perhaps inevitable that L’If would sit in Le Pin’s shadow. But now, 15 years after Jacques Thienpont bought the estate, with a new winery and the significant work in the vineyards completed, L’If is building its own reputation.  Although the same team is largely involved in both estates, L’If is a totally different site and wine. The cool soils have better water-holding capacity, and budburst is around 10 days later than at Le Pin with its warm free-draining gravels – a gap that often widens as the growing season progresses, meaning harvest is significantly later here. Diana Berrouet Garcia – who acts as Managing Director for Domaines Jacques Thienpont, including both Le Pin and L’If – notes how at L’If the terroir seems to speak louder than the vintage and can better adapt to more challenging conditions, while the vines can struggle – especially in hot, dry years – at Le Pin. Where Le Pin is round, supple and exotic, L’If is linear, taut and mineral; one sensual and spherical, the other just on the right side of severe, with a crystalline quality. Even in the last few years, it’s amazing how the wine is evolving – nipping at Le Pin’s toes in terms of quality. Re-tasting the 2019, it’s amazingly approachable with a perfumed nose and juicy, pure fruit that complements the wine’s natural tension.   It's still comparatively early days for L’If –  and the team has invested significantly, focusing on shaping the vineyard and ensuring they have the tools in the winery to translate the work in the vines. For now, over half the vineyard is being used for the second wine, Les Collines d’If – something that will change in time, as they continue to replant parcels. As it happens, yews grow incredibly slowly – but are also some of the longest-living trees (Perthshire in Scotland is home to the Fortingall yew, thought to be 2,000-3,000 years old and one of the oldest trees in Europe). The Theinpont family is just settling in at L’If, but as they lay down roots, the potential is clear.   The Thienpont family: who does what?  Jacques Thienpont: Owns Le Pin, L’If and L’Hêtre (the latter with his sister Anne de Raeymaeker), but is also a co-owner of Vieux Château Certan. He oversees the family’s original Belgian wine merchant business, the Belgian Royal Warrant-holding Thienpont Wine, which is managed by his wife and award-winning wine writer Fiona Morrison MW.  Alexandre Thienpont: Co-owns and manages Vieux Château Certan with his son, Guillaume, as well as co-owning Le Pin with Jacques. Alexandre and Guillaume also farm the vines at Le Pin, L’If and L’Hêtre, as well as Vieux Château Certan.  Guillaume Thienpont: Manages Vieux Château Certan with his father, Alexandre, as well as making L’Etoile and Les Fillottes with his second cousin, François Thienpont. He also now manages Ch. Guillot-Clauzel, which is not owned by the family.  François Thienpont: Manages the family’s négociant business, Wings, as well as making L’Etoile and Les Fillottes with Guillaume Thienpont and is a co-owner of both Vieux Château Certan and Ch. Puygueraud.  Nicolas Thienpont: Owns and/or manages a group of estates with his son Cyrille: Pavie Macquin, Larcis Ducasse, La Prade, Laclaverie, Charmes Godard and Puygueraud.  Cyrille Thienpont: Owns and manages the Nicolas Thienpont group of properties with his father, as well as managing and making the wine at L’If.  There are many more members of the Thienpont family involved in wine, but these are the most prominent at the time of writing.   Explore all current listings of L’If or read more about Bordeaux 

Le Pin is one of the world’s most famous wines – but it’s just one of the Thienpont family projects. We dissect the dynasty and explore the evolution of L’If, the Saint-Emilion estate that is emerging as one of the region’s most exciting names

Jacques Thienpont created cult Pomerol wine estate Le Pin in 1979, but now he’s got a new project in Saint-Emilion, Bordeaux: L’If 

Exploring L’If: Le Pin’s Saint-Emilion sibling 

Lerner Project

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