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  

In Sicily, for the feast day of San Giuseppe, they make a soup, a very plain soup of 
chickpeas, fava beans and wheat grains, all soaked and cooked separately before 
being combined with bitter wild greens and perhaps some broken pasta. It is a 
celebration not of poverty but in poverty. The richness of the meal comes from the 
time it takes, the hours of soaking and boiling, of picking leaves in muddy fields. 
The feast day of the patron saint of workers (and the stepfather of God) falls on 
the 19th March, full spring in the Sicilian countryside with the almond trees in 
blossom. San Giuseppe’s soup marks the last use of the previous year’s harvest, 
the last pulses and grains to be taken from the store which the summer’s baking 
heat and the rains of autumn had provided for the coming winter. It is both a soup 
and a celebration, but it is also a sacrifice – a sacrifice of time against an uncertain 
future, time given freely as a kind of guarantee. Cooking of any kind – but especially the lengthy processes of preserving, drying, 
pickling and curing – is really an act of optimism, an assertion that there will be a 
future in which to eat. And the more time and care you put into such a process, the 
more value you get out. For example, the longer a cure or a pickle takes, the longer, 
in general, it will last. In providing food for the future, this sacrifice also makes 
it much more likely that the future it was made for will indeed occur. A practical 
optimism, you could say. A spending of time, not just because you have little else 
to spend, but because it is prudent to do so. For much of the world now, of course, the situation is reversed: we can buy almost 
anything we want at any time we please and have it delivered almost immediately. 
And we seem to be encouraged to spend less time doing things like cooking. 
Time is a commodity, and rather than sacrifice our time, we’re encouraged to 
sacrifice time itself, to take shortcuts. Time is listed in any given recipe, along 
with the rest of the ingredients and equipment: two onions, one stick of celery, 
one carrot, 15 minutes preparation and two hours cooking time, but it is almost 
always consequently manipulated. Everybody knows – once they have followed 
a few recipes – that enough time is never given to cook an onion. ‘Sauté until soft 
and golden, about two minutes,’ writes the chef (or the editor insists so the recipe can fall into the category of ‘quick and easy weeknight suppers’ or ‘fifteen-minute 
meals’ or whatever it is they are currently trying to sell). The fact that nobody ever
sautéed an onion until soft and golden in less than 10 minutes is elided, sacrificed 
to the promise that this dish, now, will not cost too much of your time. Even recipes 
which can never be made quickly – soups, stews, cures – are touted as demanding 
just a little of your time and even less of your attention, your active time. The slow 
braise allows the cook to focus not on cooking, but on other things. To me, this 
is a lost opportunity. Yes, it is nice to know that dinner is safely squared away, 
puttering merrily to itself in a low oven. It is exciting to think that a jar of cabbage 
is slowly transforming into sauerkraut at the back of a dark cupboard. But if all we 
see is the prepared ingredients and the end result, how much do we miss of the 
metamorphosis in-between? Convenience is desirable, but over the last year, time has – for most of us – come at 
less of a premium. Even before that, though, I have always found a certain satisfaction 
in giving my complete attention to whatever I am cooking. This goes without saying for 
the quick and fast – for the doneness of a steak, or pasta, for deep-frying, or grilling 
delicate fish. However, it is also rewarding for the slower processes, for observing the 
slow changing of textures as liquids bubble and reduce.  If, for example, you are making marmalade, you could work out the setting 
temperature and, once the final boil has begun, insert a probe thermometer with 
an alarm set to sound when it reaches the precise temperature: all well and good. 
If, however, there isn’t a thermometer to hand – or, as is often the case, you only 
have one that is in sore need of calibration and therefore useless – you can fall 
back on the finger test your mother may or may not have taught you. Placing a 
stack of saucers in the fridge and – when you think the marmalade is nearly ready 
– spooning a little out onto a cold saucer, you prod the result with your finger to 
see if it wrinkles. What, then, if you don’t have a stack or even a single perfectly 
chilled saucer to hand? Then you have to watch the bubbles rise. 
The point of making marmalade or jam is not simply that you are cooking a liquid 
until it reaches approximately 105˚C, but rather that you are cooking a liquid until 
it becomes capable (as water is not) of reaching that temperature – which means it 
has to become thicker, stronger. The bubbles it creates, at first double the liquid in 
volume (bringing the inevitable worry that your pan is too small) before settling and 
lowering into a dense boil that threatens to catch on the bottom. Once you’ve seen 
it, that transformation is unmistakable, and if you had just stuck a thermometer 
in the pan and got on with something else, you would never have noticed. This 
(admittedly useful and in a working kitchen, essential) piece of technology would 
have removed you from the process, from the facts of cooking. This is true of any kind of technology – it is, by and large, its purpose. I am not necessarily suggesting 
that you replace your oven with a wood-fired stove and monitor the temperature 
with a questing hand (if you can’t hold it in there, it’s hot enough) – although that 
would, I think, be fun. Certainly, anything which makes our lives easier is not to be 
dismissed out of hand, but isn’t it always worth wondering what, at any moment, 
you can afford to lose? 
The point with cooking is that the time put in is not simply lost but rather spent 
or, invested – although sometimes you might not think it – wisely. A six-hour 
braise consumed in less than 30 minutes can seem hardly worth the effort, but 
only if you see the eating of food as the sole reason to cook it. When I think of 
meals I have cooked for other people, for birthdays or holidays or simply for 
the pleasure of company, it is rarely the eating of them – the few minutes of 
attacking a chicken or slurping up pasta or licking grease off fingers – which 
comes immediately to mind but rather their slow build-up. It’s the digging of the 
pit to build the fire that has to die before I bury the lamb, wrapped carefully in 
foil and sackcloth; the careful attendance to a boiling pan of stock, its bubbles 
changing in size and consistency as it gradually reduces into gravy; the oil 
slowly spitting out of a pot of ragù, its surface barely moving as it stews. These 
are the things I remember fondly, the nurturing process of bringing a meal 
together. And these moments aren’t solitary meditations – with any meal there 
is more to be done than just cooking something. There are salads to be made 
and dressings to be whipped, pasta to be rolled, tables to be set, cocktails to be 
mixed, and wine to be poured. The making of a meal is only a chore if you begin 
to do it wishing it were already over. If instead you begin to do it because you 
want to do it, with the end result of ‘something to eat’ as almost a by-product 
of a rewarding activity, then the pleasure you find in it changes. 
Although for most of us, it’s no longer – as it was for the Sicilians celebrating 
San Giuseppe – a matter of life or death. This choice to involve yourself 
purposefully in the everyday act of cooking, and otherwise preparing food, still 
has an air of sacrifice, of time exchanged in the promise of something greater. 
It is, I suppose, literally a sacrifice, as the time you allot to cooking is time 
you could have made available for emails, or exercise, or simply to idly scroll 
through Netflix adding films you will probably never watch to your list. But, as 
is the way of all such propitiatory acts, it is a sacrifice which contains the seeds 
of its desired outcome. What you put in determines what you get out, in the 
straightforward terms of a meal you can eat – but it is also its own reward. You 
know, as you reverently chop, or soak, or simmer, that you are investing your 
time to create something better than good. That whatever you are making will 
have a special richness to it. The richness of chickpeas, or water or gold.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Margate-based chef and food writer, Thom Eagle, contemplates the value of spending more, not less, time in the kitchen.

Illustration by Stewart Walton.

Margate-based chef and food writer, Thom Eagle, contemplates the value of spending more, not less, time in the kitchen

FONDATA: Time for Food

Time for Food

Exploring the world of eaux de vie with artisan distillers who are elevating the ancient harvest ritual to the realm of alchemy

Exploring the world of eaux de vie with Rochelt, Capreolus, Domaine Roulot and Capovilla, who are elevating the ancient harvest ritual to the realm of alchemy

FONDATA: The quest for distilled perfection - eaux de vie

Fruits of wonder: the quest for distilled perfection

Châteauneuf-du-Pape has a long history, becoming the new home for the Pope in the 14th century, but its prestige as a wine region is comparatively short. Although it is France’s oldest appellation (the first to be officially classified in 1923), the wines only really gained notoriety in the second half of the 20th century. More recently, its full-bodied, fruity style found appeal among American critics – namely Robert Parker, who helped increase its following across the Atlantic. But, despite the success of estates such as Ch. Rayas, there is little fanfare around the region. Isabel Ferrando’s dynamism, therefore, is a refreshing change. Her story is one of revolution rather than evolution. With every step in her career, she has made bold decisions – decisions that have brought significant attention, praise and a legion of fans. For her, such an approach aligns neatly with the philosophy of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. “The only limit is to respect the appellation. That is the only limit,” says Ferrando. With 13 permitted varieties (or 22 if you count both white and red grapes) and five very different, distinct soils, countless expressions of the appellation are possible – and, for her, this is why it’s a very modern appellation. Everyone is given the freedom to “paint their picture”. Although the region might be famous for its galets roulés (large round pebbles that reflect heat and add to ripeness), this is just one of its terroirs. “There are five different soils in Châteauneuf – chalk, limestone, clay, sand, galet stones that each have a strong influence on the appellation,” she explains. “There is one singularity,” she admits, “and that is a lot of fruit.” She feels that Châteauneuf is united by its “fruity but serious” profile – however, beyond that, there is incredible variety – from more floral to darker, more savoury styles. “The vines on clay produce a fatness in the wine. The sandy soils bring a silky texture and tenderness to the tannins. The chalk gives a sensation of powder,” she says, highlighting how each soil type contributes to the final wine – providing a palette for any winemaker to produce a wine that fits their sensibility. This freedom made the region a perfect fit for Ferrando – who decided to give up her job in banking to become a winemaker 20 years ago. Then a new mother, she initially thought that being her own boss would allow her to spend more time with her family. That didn’t actually happen, she admits, “But when you become a mother or father, you become someone else – you look at life differently. I wanted to go back to nature,” she says. “I didn’t want to raise my daughter in a city. I was born in the countryside, and I needed that for my daughter.” After training for a year in Gigondas under Dominique Ay (at Domaine Raspail-Ay) she found a domaine for sale in Châteauneuf-du-Pape and jumped at the opportunity. She might have been new to the region, a woman in a male-dominated industry with no background in winemaking, but that wasn’t going to put her off. Fortunately, she made some good friends – most notably the late legendary Châteauneuf-du-Pape producer Henri Bonneau who was instrumental in the establishment of Domaine Saint-Préfert. When she arrived, the vineyards were not in good shape, with many vines diseased and in need of replanting. Traditionally, producers in Châteauneuf-du-Pape blend plots together to capture the complexities of the different soils and varieties etc. But, if she was to make a wine of quality, this was not possible for Ferrando. So she identified the best plots and bottled those separately (as her Réserve Auguste Favier and Collection Charles Giraud cuvées), while she set about replanting the rest of the vineyards. The young fruit from her new vines was dedicated to her Cuvée Classique Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Single-vineyard bottlings were quite a radical move in the appellation – but such was the quality of these low-production, old-vine bottlings that Ferrando’s wines rapidly earned recognition. She went further to challenge convention in the region, crafting three varietal wines in a region that was built on blends. These cuvées – a Clairette (Cuvée Spéciale Vieilles Clairettes), Cinsault (Cuvée F601) and Grenache (Cuvée Colombis) bottling – are remarkable wines. There is no other 100% Cinsault produced in Châteauneuf-du-Pape.“The Cinsault is absolutely perfect in Saint-Préfert,”, says Ferrando. “Nowhere else in Châteauneuf-du-Pape do you get these floral aromas.” She describes the grape as the Pinot Noir of the Rhône. Production is tiny – limited to just 800 bottles a year – and it is not cheap at £500 a bottle. But, for those lucky enough to taste it, it is beguiling. The Wine Advocate’s Joe Czerwinski rated it as his top discovery of 2020. Her 100% Clairette is another oddity for Châteauneuf-du-Pape and almost as rare. Only bottled in magnums (800 a year) – this is a wine that Ferrando believes can age 50 years or more. “Clairette is my vision of white wine in the Southern Rhône.” She wants to counter the claim that white Châteauneuf-du-Pape is fat and fruity. “With Clairette, you can produce very fresh and deep wines,” she says, “it gives a lot of freshness, tension and salinity to the whites.” The wine was inspired by her mentor Henri Bonneau, who convinced Ferrando to bottle these 80-year-old vines separately. In the early days of Saint-Préfert, Ferrando invited Bonneau to a feast of tête de veau – and Bonneau arrived with a magnum of an unlabelled white wine. During the meal, Bonneau started to cry – he told Ferrando that the wine was the last bottle from the cellar made by his father – a 1947 100% Clairette – showing how well good Clairette could age. “It was a very special moment,” notes Ferrando. The wine was incredibly fresh and in perfect condition. He asked Ferrando again to create another 100% Clairette – like his father’s. The first vintage was 2009. Once the wine was picked and fermented Bonneau would come to the winery, taste the wine and insist she not bottle the wine yet. It was not ready. “It was risky,” says Ferrando, “but he insisted.” After 18 months she could hold off no longer and bottled it. Tasting the wine, she was amazed by its tension. It was special. The first magnum of every vintage was given to Bonneau as a thank you. After 20 years in Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Ferrando is one of the appellation’s brightest stars. But she hasn’t stopped challenging the status quo. After building one of the most celebrated brands in the appellation, Ferrando overhauled her range in 2020 – discontinuing many wines and changing the estate’s name to Famille Isabel Ferrando. Few people would have the guts to take such a chance, but a meditative period over Covid-19, the death of her husband and the evolution of her vineyards all prompted her next radical change. “The resistance of people to change is apparent, it is comfortable to stay the same,” she admits. But, for Ferrando, she had to change. Over 20 years, she’d nurtured her vineyards back to health, her young vines had reached maturity and her biodynamic farming had brought biodiversity back into her vineyards. “The vineyards changed and so the wines had to change too,” she explains. Ferrando now had the quality of fruit to be able to produce a single, flagship Châteauneuf-du-Pape cuvée – a wine that represented her terroir and her winemaking style. While she still produces her Vieilles Clairettes, F601 Cinsault and Colombis cuvées, she has sacrificed her top-scoring Auguste Favier and Charles Giraud reds to produce what she feels is a true representation of her estate and sensibility. The wine captures her obsession with freshness, balanced with concentration – playing with the different textural qualities of her soils and varieties. With this refreshed focus from the 2020 vintage, Ferrando decided to bottle the wines under Famille Isabel Ferrando – trusting that her customers will follow the wines under this new name. Ferrando’s daughter seems to have inherited her mother’s revolutionary approach. At 22, she decided to abandon her business studies to tackle a degree in viticulture in Beaune – to the complete shock of her mother. While currently her daughter is learning about winemaking at some of the best estates around the world (including at the likes of Domaine Roulot, Eisele Vineyard, Mullineux and more), she has already had an influence at Saint-Préfert. It was under her guidance that Ferrando hired a young agronomist engineer who has been planting trees and cereal crops in the vineyards to improve biodiversity. Ferrando is clearly excited– still spurred on by change, despite her success. Tasting the new wines from Famille Isabel Ferrando is a wonderful experience. We were among the first to taste the 2021 vintage. The white Châteauneuf-du-Pape is divine – offering such beautiful freshness, salinity and depth, with a finesse that I can’t remember tasting from the region. And the reds, even at such a young age, already taste so balanced, pure and refined. Ferrando might be a radical and modern vigneron, but her wines are timeless. Browse all Famille Isabel Ferrando listings or read more Editorial

Isabel Ferrando is one of the stars of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. As she once more tears up the rulebook to relaunch her wines under Famille Isabel Ferrando, we discuss her journey so far, and why she believes Châteauneuf-du-Pape is one of the most exciting wine regions in the world today.

Over 20 years, Isabel Ferrando has been challenging convention in Chateauneuf-du-Pape – she explains why it’s so essential to never stop evolving

Talking to Chateauneuf-du-Pape’s Isabel Ferrando

The challenge to change: Isabel Ferrando

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

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

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

Bordeaux, Burgundy wines and building the hype

Bordeaux, Burgundy and building the hype

A couple of years ago, I wrote a book called Time Tamed. In retrospect it is an ambitious title. Even at the time I realised as much, describing man’s efforts to tame time as being a task as Sisyphean as it is Canute-like. Humankind invented time to make sense of the world around us. It can be argued that an understanding of time – and the ability, however rudimentary, to track it and act according to it – is right up there alongside the ability to fashion tools and communicate using spoken language, as one of the characteristics setting humans aside from the other species with which our planet is shared. In the beginning at least, the extent of our relationship with time was a cognitive reaction to phenomena that permitted the prediction of cyclical seasonal events such as the migration of animals, and later forecasting the effect of variations in terms of temperature and daylight hours on the flowering and fruiting of crops.   The triumph of human intellect, and the beginning of our species’ march to its position at the apex of life on our planet, was to make conscious use of this intellectual edge that allowed us to benefit from the recurring patterns of events foretold by observation of such astronomical phenomena as the rising and setting of the sun, the waxing and waning of the moon, and the lengthening and shortening of the diurnal span. Lunar phases repeat themselves in a cycle of 29½ days; the tropical year as measured, say, from winter solstice to winter solstice (when the day is shortest and night longest) is approximately 365¼ days. The interaction of the solar and lunar calendars, providing, respectively, the year and the 12 months in it, gave us the framework upon which to build civilisation. “If time was conceived as the precise measure of an ordered succession of states, it should come as no surprise to find that its first criterion of measurement in every known civilization should have been the movement of the stars (which is both movement and return, in other words a ‘constant periodical appearance’)”, wrote Umberto Eco. He next posed the rhetorical question: “Even if there were nothing more to time than this, it would still be interesting to ask why, for so many centuries, men measured out the years, the months, and the days, but came so late to measuring hours and minutes. The main stumbling block was the need for mechanically precise instruments to measure them.” Calendars of varying degrees of sophistication have been in use for millennia. In my book, I wrote about a series of 12 fire pits in Scotland that – in conjunction with the known location of sunrise through a mountain pass on the morning of the winter solstice – functioned as a calendar in the Mesolithic period, 10,000 years ago. Compared to that, widely available accurate timekeeping is only a relatively recent phenomenon. Had you asked a medieval peasant the time, he would have probably told you what season it was and, as recently as the mid 19th century, time was measured according to local meridians that gave a local solar noon. Britain, at the time the world’s preeminent industrial power, only got its first real taste of unified national time in 1851, when millions visited the Great Exhibition, travelling from all corners of the Kingdom by trains that ran to a single national time. But in the last couple of centuries the pace has hastened: we have become, as Eco put it, “children of a clock civilization”, and I am sure there are those who would argue that it is from there that many of our problems have arisen.   The industrialisation of time was of particular interest to Karl Marx. “The clock is the first automatic machine applied to practical purposes,” he wrote to Friedrich Engels in 1863, “and the whole theory of production of regular motion was developed on it.” Even though abstract, time had become the ultimate economic commodity. Life became lived according to the maxim ‘time is money’ and with a Gradgrindian myopia we have concentrated on ever smaller divisions of time until we have become not children but slaves of the clock. Time was never tangible, but in the past it linked human experience to the cosmos through the tracking of solar and lunar cycles. The division of time into units that are independent of astral cycles has distanced us from the natural rhythms of life. Division of time into small units standardised around the world has facilitated the synchronisation of activities that enable us to live in our modern world of ‘just-in-time’ production, conurbations with populations of millions, and a network of integrated transport systems that allow us to travel from one side of the world to the other well within the span of a single day. It has taken the recent and as yet unresolved upheaval wrought upon our carefully organised world by the COVID-19 pandemic to reveal the humbling fragility of the system by which we live and regulate our lives. Moreover, one could argue that it is the application of monetised time that is responsible for the ravages that we have perpetrated on our planet in pursuit of our industrial goals. But before we blame the rise of the timepiece for the ills of the world, there is an aspect to watchmaking that can enable us to reconnect with the cosmos in a way that is familiar to those conversant with the world of biodynamic winemaking. So, when the editor of FONDATA suggested biodynamic winemaking as the prism through which to view watchmaking, I was intrigued. Once upon a time, a long time ago, I did work in the wine trade. However, we parted company during the 1980s, some time before biodynamic winemaking became what I believe is called ‘a thing’. Obviously, all readers of FONDATA understand the basic principles of biodynamics, but I needed to undergo a quick crash course in what is just one of the legacies of the quite extraordinarily colourful and at times controversial Rudolf Steiner; the late 19th- and early 20th-century Austrian philosopher, social reformer, writer, educationalist, editor, architect, spiritualist, scientific spiritualist, mystic, Goethe superfan, campaigner for the independence of upper Silesia – and much more besides. He came up with everything from a new, quasi-religious movement called ‘Anthroposophy’, to a new approach to medicine; a new artform, ‘Eurythmy’, to a new form of agriculture, ‘Biodynamics’. Steiner turned his fecund and agile mind to the problem of agriculture in the early 1920s and addressed many of the concerns that we are still grappling with a century later, advocating a sustainable ecologically-oriented approach to farming that eschewed chemical pesticides and fertilisers in favour of natural alternatives and conducting agriculture based on an astronomical and astrological calendar. Steiner is memorable because he could enliven even the relatively practical activity of growing things with woo-woo mumbo jumbo of a level to which even Gwyneth Paltrow can only aspire: for instance, burying manure in a cow horn over winter and then exhuming it; or controlling infestations of field mice by sprinkling fields with the ashes obtained by burning the skin of a “fairly young mouse” obtained “at a time when Venus is in the sign of Scorpio”. And yet, such was the power of his way of thinking that it would be wrong to characterise him as a total crank: Steiner was apparently taken seriously by Hitler as a threat to National Socialism.  But back to wine. Prima facie, there is little to link the joyous celebration and bounteousness of viniculture with the mechanical slicing of hours into minutes, into seconds into milliseconds. However, to view watchmaking as being just about the business of telling the time is to underestimate what is in my opinion one of the most engrossing areas of human ingenuity and creativity, where science, mathematics, mechanics and art meet. I like to think about watchmaking as being connected to the detection and calibration of rhythms and patterns … biodynamic farming is all about rhythms and patterns, especially those of the lunar calendar. In his writings, there are times when Steiner could be writing the script for Star Wars – when he talks of entering into “the forces that regulate growth, crucially the ‘fully-evolved Moon-force’”.  The Biodynamic Association uses less picturesque language to summarise the approach, saying that the philosophy of biodynamic farming is founded on “the influences of the moon, planets and constellations on plant growth”. “Each month the moon moves through all twelve constellations of the zodiac in turn. This is referred to as the moon’s sidereal cycle and forms the basis of the biodynamic calendar. Although the waxing and waning (synodic) cycle is the most well-known lunar rhythm, it plays a small part in this calendar.” The indication of moon phases has long been a feature of watchmaking, and even if knowing whether one is living under a waxing gibbous moon is not of primary importance to most of us, the function is undeniably decorative when artistically transferred to a watch face – the moon disc, often decorated with a background of stars, making a complete rotation once every 29½ days. Watches with more advanced astronomical functionality feature sidereal time as well. And this year, the long-established watchmaker Jaeger-LeCoultre demonstrated that it is capable of getting seriously cosmological. To celebrate the 90th anniversary of its famous Reverso model, it released the world’s first four-sided watch, the Hybris Mechanica Quadriptyque. As its name suggests the Reverso flips over to reveal its back. Initially conceived as a protective measure, more recently the back has been used to display other information (another time zone for instance). Now, the cradle in which the watch sits on the wrist has also been mechanised to offer two further planes for display – much in the way that one can connect multiple screens to a single computer rather than having to be constantly opening and closing windows. And Jaeger’s watchmaking wizards have turned faces three and four into a banquet of lunar information.  On the interior face of the cradle there are three displays giving the synodic cycle in the northern hemisphere, the draconic cycle (the height of the moon) and the anomalistic cycle (apogee and perigee, when the moon is respectively furthest from and nearest to the Earth), while the fourth side of the watch gives the synodic cycle in the southern hemisphere.   It sounds like an observatory on the wrist and according to the makers: “the Hybris Mechanica Quadriptyque can predict the next global incidence of astronomical events such as supermoons and eclipses – the world’s first wristwatch to provide such a deep reading of the cosmos.” I imagine even Steiner would be impressed especially as in biodynamic circles cosmological connections are crucial. Biodynamic agricultural activity is governed by knowledge of the behaviour of celestial bodies: ascending moon days favour certain agricultural activities while other tasks are better performed on descending moon days. Eclipses, apogee, perigee, and new moons all have their associated agricultural messages for the biodynamic farmer.   “It’s connected into the cosmos,” explains Philippa Hegarty of Hegarty Chamans, a vineyard in the foothills of the Montagne Noire in the Minervois. “We find an explanation that people respond to is; if the Moon has such a strong tidal influence then it can certainly move sap up and down a vine and that’s what we work with at different times of the year.” Providing timing of the movement of the tides is another function that the mechanical clock or watch can perform; indeed it is one of the oldest, predating the minute hand, the second hand, the wristwatch and even the pocket watch. The provision of times of high tide by a mechanical timepiece can be traced back to the 14th century and the famous Astronomical Clock designed by Richard of Wallingford, Abbot of St. Albans – which as well as showing the fixed stars and charting the movements of the sun and moon (complete with ecliptic nodes – another important feature for biodynamic winemakers) gave the times of the tides at London Bridge.   In fact, the technical leap forward accomplished by clockmakers in the 14th century rivals that of computer networks in our own time: at the end of the 13th century time was still being told by clepsydrae (like an hour glass but with water instead of sand) and by the middle of the following century, man was mapping the cosmos using mechanical machines of unimaginable complexity. If Giovanni de Dondi’s Astrarium of 1364 looks a little like a lunar landing module, then that was not the only thing it predicted. About a metre high and standing on protruding feet, the Astrarium featured seven panels with dials that showed the movements of the sun, moon and the then-known planets: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn. Further dials indicated dates of fixed and moveable religious feast days, the intersections of the solar and lunar orbits, and time of sunrise and sunset. In comparison, the 24-hour clock seems prosaic, almost otiose. Another common feature of these miracle machines of the Middle Ages was the zodiac. Rather than being relegated to the horoscope section of the tabloid press, astrology was as much of a science as astronomy, and a medieval megaclock could not take itself seriously without a dial or two depicting the signs of the zodiac. The celebrated Three Kings Clock of Strasbourg Cathedral was no exception. As well as its astrolabe dial, ecclesiastical calendar, carillon mechanism that filled the air with religious music, and the automata that replicated the nativity, an illustrated panel linked signs of the zodiac to body parts, connecting human health with the movements of the celestial bodies, thus indicating propitious or hazardous times for that key medical procedure of the times: bloodletting. The influence of the zodiac constellations is an important part of the biodynamic playbook. “Since ancient times the twelve zodiac constellations have been associated with each of the four elements: earth, water, air and light,” observes the Biodynamic Association. “Three constellations are connected to each element, and each element is related to a part of the plant: thus, Earth – root; water – leaf; air – flower; fire – fruit.” “For example, for sowing or harvesting carrots, an earth – root day should be chosen; for lettuce, a water – leaf day; for beans and apples, a fire – fruit day; and for flowers and broccoli, an air – flower day.” As the example of the Jaeger-LeCoultre Hybris Mechanica Quadriptyque shows, thanks to the technological advances that have accrued during the last 20 or 30 years, the miracle of modern mechanical watchmaking is that it is able to miniaturise cosmological functions and place them on the wrist. Recent years have seen some truly spectacular wristwatches enter the market. Patek Philippe’s double-faced Sky Moon Tourbillon is regarded as one of the trophies of modern watchmaking: featuring minute repeater with ‘cathedral gongs’; tourbillon; perpetual calendar with retrograde date hand; day, month, leap year in apertures; hours and minutes of mean solar time; moon phases; and on the reverse, moon-focused watch face, sidereal time, sky chart, and phases and orbit of the moon. Van Cleef & Arpels caused a stir when it released a watch that condensed the workings of a planetarium onto the wrist with a watch charting the movement of the five planets visible to the naked eye from Earth: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn; each planet orbiting on its own disc in its real rotation time. Blancpain, meanwhile, has tackled the notoriously complex lunisolar Chinese calendar to create a watch that displays the ten celestial pillars, the five celestial elements, the phases of the moon, the animal associated with the year and the date as given by the Gregorian calendar. I am neither watchmaker nor winemaker, but given the approaching centenary of Steiner’s 1924 series of agricultural lectures which gave birth to biodynamics, now might be a propitious time to consider a mechanical timepiece that displays the cosmological information pertinent to biodynamic viticulturists and farmers. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Author and writer Nicholas Foulkes reflects on how modern horological advances are resulting in some exquisitely made timepieces that look to display increasingly complex celestial information pertinent to a surprising demographic – biodynamic farmers.

Delve into the intricate connection between humans and time. From celestial rhythms to watchmaking marvels, uncover the ties that bind.

Exploring Humanity's Complex Relationship with Time

Celestial Movements 

Three of the five First Growths are situated in Pauillac. What is it that makes this appellation so special? As Chateau Lafite neighbours Saint-Estèphe does it share an affinity with both appellations?

We can only be very biased when making comments on the Pauillac appellation, having two Chateaux in the appellation (Chateau Lafite & Chateau Duhart Milon). We are Pauillac
lovers and defenders! It is deeply rooted. The capacity to combine density, complexity
and elegance is unique. The capacity to age the wines is remarkable, such is the potential to seduce wine lovers with captivating aromas. One phrase, not from us, that we feel symbolises Pauillac’s wine is “an iron fist in a velvet glove”. When it comes to Saint-Estèphe, we are also very biased as we have four hectares planted next door to Cos d’Estournel and Lafon-Rochet. Those four hectares produce remarkable Cabernet Sauvignon which goes into the Lafite Grand Vin nearly every year. It is part of the original estate of Chateau Lafite, which is one of the reasons why we have a specific authorisation to include it in our final blend. Ripeness, structure, capacity to seduce are really what makes our Saint-Estèphe grapes so special. In the past you have talked about how well the terroir of Lafite manages with warm vintages – why do you think that is?

The Lafite terroir is extraordinary, it is such a privilege for us to work on this very particular piece of land. The density and depth of gravel, the capacity to restrain water, the quality
of the vegetative material, the high proportion of Cabernet Sauvignon… all those elements combined are certainly part of the answer. Cabernet Sauvignon is a fascinating grape in that regard, the resistance and capacity of never becoming too extreme is very fortunate. But Lafite is not only one terroir. People think about the hill of Lafite of course, but we have Anseillan which is a very interesting territory to explore, we have Bel Air on the South West not far from Duhart-Milon which is a bit more arid, we have the Plateau des Carruades –  a playground for Grands Vins for a century, and we also have the Caillava in the Saint-Estèphe appellation which makes us a bit unique in that regards. Our fortune is to be able to play
with this diversity in the final blend, always challenging ourselves every year. Tell us more about the five defining terroirs of Chateau Lafite: Plateau de Lafite: Located just outside the Chateau from our cellar up to the hill of Lafite down south on one side, and up to the villages of Milon and Loubeyres going west on another side. This plateau, from the quaternary period is a mix of very deep Clayey gravel on top of the hill, sandy-gravel closer to the Chateau on the western part, and some parcels planted on aeolian sandy soil. All is mainly planted with old Cabernet Sauvignon. This is the backbone of Lafite Grand Vin nearly every year. It gives fruit elegance, texture, and exceptional density. The magical playground for us. Plateau des Carruades:  The iconic and historic terroir des Carruades nestled between the south of Duhart-Milon and Mouton, is one of the most extraordinary pieces of deep clayey gravel soil from the
quaternary period. This plateau is planted with great Cabernet Sauvignon but also with the best Merlot of Lafite. It is today a terroir of experimentation for us where we conduct most of our biodynamical analysis. As for the Plateau de Lafite, it is a core component of our Grand Vin blend nearly every year bringing structure. Le Caillava: Le Caillava is unique and is one of the reasons why we believe Lafite has something special. Le Caillava is located in Saint-Estèphe between Cos d’Estournel and Lafon-Rochet. A wonderful terroir of deep clayey-gravel soil from the Quaternary period. Planted in 1927, Cabernet Sauvignon on this terroir gives spicy, ripe and structured grapes entering every year in the final blend of Lafite Grand Vin. Bel Air, Passe-Temps, Berret:  Our most southern and arid terroir is located south of Duhart-Milon vineyards, next door to our cooperage. Most of the terroir is gravel soil from the quaternary period, with some
blocks mixed with more sandy soil. Grapes from those two terroirs are very expressive, generous, and sometimes more hard than other plateau, but always useful in blends. Our plot of Cabernet Franc is also planted in this part. 
Anseillan:  Located on the eastern side of the estate, the closest to the riverside, on the other side of the road from Pauillac to Saint-Estèphe. Some terroir of clayey gravel soil on top of Anseillan
surrounding the village. On the lower part of Anseillan down the road and up north closer to the Saint-Estèphe border the terroir is alluvial-clay-limestone from the tertiary period. It is relatively evenly planted in Cab Sauv and Merlot, and with our parcel of Petit Verdot. It is a new terroir of exploration for Carruades that looks very promising. An even more precise “laser-cut approach” towards parcel management enabling us to pick lovely grapes bringing us joy and confidence for the future of this terroir that we better master. 
Making a wine for such a historical estate, do you feel the pressure to maintain the status quo? Making wine and working in such a historical estate is a privilege, first of all. And because it is such a privilege, we have a moral duty of not maintaining status quo and always challenging ourselves. What can we do better? How is Bordeaux evolving? What is
driving wine lovers’ appetites today?...  Great companies and chateaux are led with an entrepreneurial spirit. We work for the long term, to prepare the estates for the next generation, the decisions we take when it comes to
investment or vineyard management are really long-term. This is strongly rooted in values of Lafite and the Rothschild family. 
How do you balance this with your own desires as a winemaker to make an impression on the wine? It’s a very good question! It was a little bit difficult at the beginning for a young agronomist/oenologist arriving at Lafite. At this age, you always think that you will be able to start the revolution and change everything and have a huge effect on the wine. But, rapidly, you understand that Lafite is not yours and belongs to the family of course, but also to the World, to the great clients, and to the history. Thus, when that is understood, your action is only focused on increasing the quality step by step, but with respect to all those who are waiting for Lafite. 
With the 2019 vintage what do you feel are the most important elements behind the vintage? 
The vintage started beautifully with a dry and mild winter. Fine weather continued in early spring with an early vegetative cycle. Cold came between March and May and we crossed our fingers/held our breath 6 times fearing that frost might hit us badly. Careful vigilance from the team was key, so was the use of candles. The first flowers appeared in Pauillac around 28th May. This flower was unfortunately capricious due to important rains arriving during the second part of flowering, leading to small amount of “coulure” and “millerandage”. Early summer was the warmest recorded since 2003, fortunately relatively short, and the vineyards showed beautiful resistance. Rain miraculously arrived on 26th July with 45mm in Pauillac  – ideal for “veraison” to start. August was then fine, with average temperatures and some rain. Early September was dry, enabling us to start the harvest on 19th September in Pauillac, 13th September at L’Evangile and 8th October in Rieussec. As always at Lafite we follow our philosophy and DNA of wine with freshness, tension and beautiful ageing capability. We have a viticulturist approach to winemaking, 80% of a great wine comes from the quality of the fruit and the investment we put in the vineyards. What have been some positive surprises of the vintage? This year we had lovely surprises from “outsider vineyards” producing pure and elegant wines that have been replacing some typical vineyards in the final blend – as always testing is key, such as the capacity to always question ourselves. This is particularly true for the Merlots planted on more gravely-clay terroirs showing beautiful tension this year. For Carruades (the second wine of Chateau Lafite), the very important work done over the last year of precision and exploration of our Anseillan terroir is really paying off. The Merlots of Anseillan and our Cabernet Franc are giving a lovely density and elegance to the pure Lafite DNA. Overall for Lafite, this is a vintage that we call “modern-classic”. In the pure Lafite style, very Cabernet led, very pure, very precise, with some ripeness. This is reflected in the final blends that is 94% Cabernet Sauvignon, 5% Merlot, 1% Petit Verdot for Chateau Lafite Grand Vin, and 68% Cabernet Sauvignon, 27% Merlot, 5% Cabernet Franc for Carruades. Our gut feel is that just as there will always be a discussion between 2009 and 2010, we will have the same between 2018 and 2019. 2018 being closer to 2009, and 2019 being closer to 2010. What are the most important factors in regard to Chateau Lafite’s winemaking philosophy? 
When it comes to winemaking, we have a very traditional and, we could say, “hands-off” approach to preserve the quality of the fruit and reflect the vintage conditions. As an example, we always use a high proportion of press wine as we don’t go for “maceration pre-fermentaire à froid” or even “maceration post-fermentaire à chaud”. We don’t do “delestage”, we have always been very gentle on vinification at Lafite.  We don’t push on the dregs/marc - we are always very soft and traditional. This explains why we then have super high quality press wine that we can include in the final blend, this year up to 15% of the blend comes from the press wine! Normally this is closer to 10-12%. 
Have you made any changes at Lafite due to global warming? We are already very well equipped at Lafite in the context of global warning. The extraordinary terroir we mentioned previously, our strong Carbernet Sauvignon planting, the quality of vegetative materials are strong assets.  Nevertheless, we try to anticipate these changes. We have an internal research and development team running some tests with different plantings, with grass development (enherbement) in vineyards, with canopy management.  We are not sure that the future will be the introduction of new grape varietals, given the Cabernet Sauvignon is already a very resistant grape. The topic of density of plantation is more important, and we are working on a slow decreasing of it. The main change in Bordeaux is the succession of extraordinary vintages. In the past, once every 5 years we had a great vintage and every 10 years an exceptional vintage. Now nearly every year the vintage conditions are such that we can produce very good wines.  How we can sustain beautiful vintages year on year in the markets is one of the big questions for the future. But it is a great challenge to have – we prefer to have amazing wine every year, it will always be drunk at some point! It is our duty as owners and producers to create the moment for wine lovers to open our bottles. Something that Bordeaux Chateaux have not been particularly active on in the past. 
How do you feel Bordeaux’s reputation has changed in the world of fine wine in the last 20 years? 20 years ago Bordeaux was by far the leading region in the world of fine wine, maybe followed by Napa and Piemont. Then Burgundy and Northern Rhone were under the spotlight. Today we have seen the rise of other regions like Tuscany… Cabernet Sauvignon was the acclaimed varietal also, now Pinot Noir is trendy - of course from Burgundy but also from Central Otago in New Zealand, and from Oregon State. The world is more open, wine lovers are maybe more curious, the loyalty to big names in the world of fine wine (as in other categories) is also weaker. This can explain why today younger generations may enter the world of fine wines through other regions, when in the past Bordeaux was the point of entry. What is also striking is how Bordeaux is modernising itself with more professionalism in many Chateaux, more willingness to travel and meet wine lovers, more open to welcome people at the property, a better understanding of the world of fine wine. With the quality of the wines produced, with more willingness to travel and understand consumers, with greater attention on crafting experiences and creating occasions for people to open bottles, there is no reason to doubt that Bordeaux will continue to shine and seduce the younger generations of wine lovers that today might not consider Bordeaux as a preferred choice. What is Bordeaux's greatest asset? We don’t see many regions in the world like Bordeaux that have the capacity to produce extraordinary wines year on year with significant volume to create a very capillary distribution. The investments that are made both in the vineyards and in the cellar are absolutely impressive in Bordeaux. Bordeaux is one of the greatest and most dynamic cities in France today, very well reachable from Paris, London, Amsterdam, Geneva…, with many things to do for a week or weekend in the region. Many Chateaux have invested in great hospitality experiences to provide customers with a memorable experience. Bordeaux has everything in its hands to really stand out and continue to seduce wine lovers from around the world, we just need to communicate it! 
What is Bordeaux’s biggest challenge? Its lack of capacity to communicate the assets discussed previously. There is no other region in France and in the world that is experiencing so much “bashing” over the last few years. Are all the criticisms unfair? Certainly not, but everything is exaggerated, and Bordeaux is not able to speak with one voice on some big topics, to have a consensus, to unite forces to make people realise how Bordeaux has changed, how modern and open to world things are now, on top of the extraordinary quality of the wines produced! How have you been affected by Coronavirus? We have been observing the evolution of this terrible pandemic for several weeks, and we have been taking immediate measures in line with the authorities. Our first priority is the safety and well-being of our people in our Chateaux, in our Bordeaux and Paris offices, in our Domaine of Aussière, but also in our properties in China, Chile and Argentina. The second priority has been to maintain minimal staff in the properties for mandatory activities – we are right in the middle of harvest in South America, we were planning the bottling of Duhart-Milon 2018, we were finishing the blending of vintage 2019 in our
Bordeaux Chateaux… We hope strongly that this terrible situation will pass very soon for everyone. 
With En Primeur tastings postponed how will this affect the release of Chateau Lafite 2019? You know that we are very strong believers in the en-primeur system as it is a unique platform for Bordeaux wines enabling the Chateaux to have the best reach and international spread possible. However, as with every system it needs to be fine-tuned, recreating a
sense of magic to maintain desirability, and needs to provide a customer incentive to purchase en-primeurs. So yes, postponing the en-primeurs is not a decision taken easily, but given the circumstances it is a choice that had to be made. It is almost impossible to have a clear view of when this terrible crisis will end and thus when we would be able to reorganize the en-primeurs. One thing is for sure, as soon as the conditions are in place for people to travel safely, which we all hope to be in June/July, we will be delighted to meet them for tastings (either in Bordeaux or around the world) to share the wines of the 2019 vintage, and share our passion and dedication to produce some of the best wines in the world! Explore all current Ch. Lafite listings or browse more Editorial 

Chateau Lafite Rothschild Technical Director Eric Kohler and Commercial Director Jean-Sebastien Philippe of Domaines Barons de Rothschild on Bordeaux’s continued relevance in an ever-expanding and competitive global fine wine market

Interview with one of the most prestigious and world-renowned wine estates, Chateau Lafite Rothschild

Interview with Chateau Lafite Rothschild

Exclusive interview with Chateau Lafite Rothschild 

Burgundy is a mecca for lovers of fine Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, but, with its litany of producers and vineyards, it can be a tricky region to get to grips with. Here we offer an essential guide to the region – breaking down everything from how vineyards are classified to producers to look out for

Discover everything you need to know about Burgundy: from vineyards and producers to the difference between négociant and domaine or what a Grand Cru is

Your essential guide to Burgundy wine

Your essential guide to Burgundy

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