Xiao-Li Meng, Whipple V. N. Jones Professor of Statistics at Harvard and Founding Editor-in-Chief of Harvard Data Science Review, was inspired by a student to combine wine and statistics—leading to insights far beyond what they ever expected.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Seeking simplicity in statistics, complexity in wine, and everything else in fortune cookies 

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               

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  

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

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

Every now and then, the word ‘singularity’ is used to describe a particular wine that stands apart, for whatever reason, from other wines of its type. But just what is singularity, and how can wine express it? Wine writer Tamlyn Currin investigates.

What makes a wine truly singular? Tamlyn Currin explores the rare bottles that defy convention and challenge the rules of the wine world.

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

For the last half-century, The Dalmore have been masters of their craft and created a luxury icon that has transcended spirits. The 12-pointed stag that graces every bottle of the Highland single malt is instantly recognisable and synonymous with quality.  But just how did this Scotch whisky distillery rise through the ranks and create a lasting legacy? How has The Dalmore become a luxury icon? The Dalmore has a long and enviable history dating back to 1839, filled with stories of valour, craftsmanship and larger-than-life characters. The single malt’s rich, chocolate, orange and subtle spice character is largely thanks to the distillery’s enviable partnership with famed Sherry bodega González Byass. This century-old relationship has ensured the distiller has maintained a steady supply of the finest Sherry casks at times when most Scotch producers were forced to mature their spirit in cheaper alternatives.   For more than 50 years, these casks have been presided over by one of the most famous faces (and noses) in Scotch whisky, Master Blender, Richard Paterson OBE. The statesman-like savant has pioneered cask maturation and produced rich, characterful whiskies that have commanded hundreds of thousands of pounds at auction. Among the many records to its name, The Dalmore was the first distiller to break the £100,000 mark for a single bottle in 2010 with its 64-year-old. In the years that have followed, The Dalmore has broken its own records numerous times.  The history of The Dalmore  The Dalmore distillery was founded by entrepreneur Sir Alexander Matheson in 1839. Matheson sold the distillery, located on the shores of the Cromarty Firth north of Inverness, to the three Mackenzie brothers in the late 1800s. The distillery stayed under family ownership for almost 100 years until it was bought by Glasgow-based Whyte & Mackay in 1960.   Whyte & Mackay quickly increased capacity from six stills to eight, and ceased malting barley on site on the 1980s.  Between 1990 and 2014, Whyte & Mackay pin balled between owners until Philippines-based brandy producer Emperador bought it for £430 million. Throughout the many changes in ownership, Master Blender Richard Paterson OBE has remained a constant.  Another constant is the iconic 12-pointed stag that adorns every bottle of Dalmore. This honour was bestowed upon the Mackenzie clan after Chief Coin of Kintail saved King Alexander III from certain death when a Highland stag charged at him.   The Dalmore – Gaelic for “large field” – has largely remained open throughout its history, only closing for a brief period during the First World War, when the Royal Navy took refuge on the grounds. When they moved on, the buildings required considerable work to repair damage from an explosion. Then-owner Mackenzie successfully took the Royal Navy to court to get compensation for the damage.  Before 2002, The Dalmore almost solely contributed to Whyte & Mackay blended malts and was not widely available beyond a 12 Year Old. Whyte & Mackay gradually started to increase the single malt range and within a few short years were shattering record prices at auction.   In 2022, plans were announced to expand the distillery and visitor centre. These included the demolition of a building that once held the distillery’s malting boxes to make way for a new production area. The Dalmore plans to install exact replicas of the existing eight wooden wash backs and four pairs of Loch Lomond stills. Once it is operational, circa 2024, the existing distillery will be closed and renovated. Rumour has it that this site will also be turned into a production facility bringing the Highland distiller’s annual capacity to nine million litres– such is the demand for Dalmore and single malt Scotch whisky more widely.  Richard Paterson OBE  It’s impossible to talk about The Dalmore without talking about their Master Blender of 50-plus years, Richard “the Nose” Paterson OBE. Over five decades, Paterson has built the global reputation of the single malt with his pioneering cask programme, unwavering quality ethos and million-pound nose. Paterson’s high-spirited presentations around the globe are legendary. It’s no exaggeration to say he hassingle-handedly converted hundreds and thousands of single malt disciples during his tenure for the distillery. But Paterson is far more than just a showman, his nose was at one point reportedly insured for £1.6 million – such are his olfactory talents and invaluable master blending skills.    Paterson started his whisky education at the tender age of eight when his father started teaching him how to nose spirits at their family specialist blending, bottling and brokerage company. At just 26 years old, the young Glaswegian landed the top whisky job of Master Blender at Whyte & Mackay – becoming the third generation in his family to hold this enviable title.   In 2020, at the age of 71, Paterson marked his 50th anniversary in the whisky industry. The same year, Paterson embarked on a world tour celebrating his tenure, promoting The Paterson Collection, which later sold for £1 million. Soon after, the Master Blender appointed former Compass Box Whisky Maker Gregg Glass as his successor and announced that he would be stepping back from day-to-day duties at Whyte & Mackay to focus on Dalmore.   The Dalmore distillery character   Arguably, the two biggest influences on The Dalmore’s iconic taste profile are the stills and the time spent in Sherry and wine casks.   For over a century, the Highland distillery has maintained a close relationship with famed Sherry bodega González Byass. This partnership has enabled The Dalmore to mature its new-make whisky in the finest Sherry casks when few others could afford to.    Typically, The Dalmore’s new-make spirit slumbers in ex-Bourbon casks for its initial maturation period before it is transferred into a Sherry or wine cask. Secondary maturation at The Dalmore is often longer than the industry average to ensure as much of the desired characteristics are imparted as possible.  For some of the distiller’s most coveted whiskies, The Dalmore has matured its whisky in butts that have previously held Matusalem Oloroso Sherry from González Byass – this is a type of award-winning Oloroso that has been aged for a minimum of 30 years, sweetened with approximately 25% Pedro Ximénez. The Dalmore continually pushes the envelope when it comes to secondary maturation, finishing its single malts in wine casks multiple times and even experimenting with casks that have previously held tequila, Calvados and Cognac. Dalmore’s coveted King Alexander III bottling was finished in a total of six different cask types: Port, Madeira, Marsala, Cabernet Sauvignon, Bourbon and Matusalem Oloroso Sherry.   The Dalmore’s new-make spirit is perfect for long maturation periods. Every stage of the production process is centred around quality – from the water source to the barley, to the production equipment, Dalmore insists on using the best materials possible.  Loch Morie, located 11 miles from the distillery, is The Dalmore’s pure water source that flows from the River Alness to its mouth just below Alness. The river runs close by the distillery and is notable for its typically Highland characteristics.  The Dalmore also sources its high-quality golden barley locally from the rich coastal soils of Ross and Cromarty.   Fermentation times at The Dalmore are slightly longer than the industry average at 50 hours. The current distillery set-up at The Dalmore is one of the most complicated in whisky production. The unique size and shape of the Loch Lomond stills enable the team to replicate the effect of shorter and longer still necks to increase or decrease the level of alcohol vapours that condense and return to the still for re-distillation, commonly referred to as reflux.   The Dalmore’s wash stills are unusual in that they have flat tops, which maximises reflux and copper contact. The Dalmore believes these two factors produce a more desirable malty, fruity and northern Highland spirit style with a robust body that is perfect for extended maturation. The spirit stills are also atypical because of their unique cooling jackets, which are the oldest pieces of equipment on site as they date back to 1874. The oldest stills at The Dalmore were installed at this time and the younger ones joined them in 1966. Currently, The Dalmore has four pairs of stills but this number is rumoured to be increasing in the next few years.   Despite its impressive output of circa 4.2 million litres annually, approximately only 5% of the distillery’s production is bottled as single malt. The vast majority of the whisky produced at the distillery is destined for Whyte & Mackay blends.   Dalmore single malts   The Dalmore’s core range, The Principal Collection, has expanded over the years and now includes a selection of age statement (12-, 15-, 18-, 21-year-old) and non-age statement (Port Wood Reserve, Sherry Cask Select, Cigar Malt Reserve, King Alexander III) whiskies. Dalmore also releases a smattering of highly anticipated and keenly sought-after distillery exclusives.   Some of the most collectable Dalmore bottlings   The Paterson Collection – The Paterson Collection is arguably the pinnacle of the modern era of whisky-making at The Dalmore and showcases esteemed Master Blender Richard Paterson’s lifetime’s work. The collection, launched to mark his 50th anniversary in the industry, comprises 12 remarkable single malts drawn from the Highland distiller’s impressive library, the oldest of which dates back to 1926. Four years after launch, The Dalmore Paterson Collection sold for £1 million.  Dalmore 62 Year Old – For a time, the Dalmore 62 Year Old held the title of the most expensive single malt ever sold.Only one dozen 62-year-old Dalmore single malts were released in 2002. The vatting of four casks filled in 1898, 1876, 1926 and 1939 fetched almost double its pre-sale estimate of £40,000-50,000 in 2017 and has only become more desirable since.   Dalmore 64 Trinitas – The Dalmore 64 Trinitas is one of the most special single malts ever bottled. After the unprecedented demand for the Dalmore 62, the distiller returned to its archive and unearthed something exceptional. The last remaining liquid from the blend which makes up the 62-year-old (from 1868, 1878, 1926 and 1939 vintages) was blended with liquid from the 1940s and left to slumber in a bespoke nine-litre cask seasoned with ultra-aged Dalmore and very old Matusalem Oloroso and a Pedro Ximénez from González Byass. Only three bottles of the Dalmore 64 Trinitas were ever released. Two sold for £100,000 in 2010 and the third sold for £120,000 in 2011.  Dalmore Constellation Collection – The Dalmore Constellation Collection isa highly collectable 21-bottle set of single-cask vintage whiskies spanning 1964 to 1992. Available individually, the younger vintages’ starting prices are £2,000; the entire collection carries an estimate of $275,000. It’s rare for a full set to become available but it has happened to much furore.   Dalmore Quintessence – The Dalmore Quintessence is one of the special single malts released to commemorate Master Blender Richard Paterson’s 50th anniversary in the whisky industry. After an initial maturation period in American oak, Dalmore Quintessence was finished in five different red wine casks (Zinfandel, Pinot Noir, Syrah, Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon) for five years before being married together – at the time, this was an industry first. The name Quintessence was chosen because it means fifth element.   Dalmore L’Anima – Dalmore is no stranger to collaborating with industry legends. The Dalmore L’Anima is the result of a partnership between Richard Paterson OBE and Michelin-starred chef Massimo Bottura. The rare, 49-year-old single malt is a marriage of three rare casks which previously housed Graham’s vintage Port pipes, 40-year-old González Byass Pedro Ximénez and small-batch Bourbon barrels. The single bottle of L’Anima– which means “soul” in Italian – sold for £108,900 at an online charity auction in early 2019.  Dalmore Decades – The Dalmore Decades are multiple-bottle collections of some of the oldest whiskies ever released by the Highland distillery.   Twenty-five sets of four bottlings from 1979, 1980, 1995 and 2000 form the Dalmore No 4 Collection, which carries a recommended sale price of £100,000.   Only 15 sets exist of the Dalmore No 5 Collection, which includes expressions from 1967, 1979, 1980, 1995 and 2000 – this comes with a recommended price of £200,000.  Dalmore No 6 is currently the most expensive collection in the Dalmore Decades series. The six-bottle set with vintages from 1951, 1967, 1979, 1980, 1995 and 2000 sold for $US1.1 million.   The Luminary Series – The Dalmore Luminary Series is a collaboration between four individuals who are at the top of their respective field: Richard Paterson, world-renowned architect Kengo Kuma, Gregg Glass and Maurizio Mucciola.  The first release in the duo is The Rare, an extremely limited 48-year-old single malt; the second is the more accessible 15-year-old expression, The Collectible.   The Luminary Series, introduced in 2022, is the first time The Dalmore has released two special liquids at stratospherically different price points (circa $100,000 for The Rare and $245 for The Collectible). A mere three decanters of The Rare exist which was created by Paterson and Kuma. The Collectible which was finished in ex-Amarone casks and Kintsugi casks – built from staves of mizunara and Scottish oak from The Dalmore estate – is the brain chid of Paterson and Kuma protégés, Gregg Glass and Maurizio Mucciola.  Browse The Dalmore whiskies and all whisky listings 

The Dalmore is one of the most revered Scotch whisky distillers in the world, famed for producing some of the most expensive single malt whiskies ever sold. But what is it that makes this Highland producer such a collectors’ darling? 

Exploring how The Dalmore has become one of the most collectable names in Scotch famed for producing some of the most expensive single malt whiskies ever sold

Investigating the single malt icon, The Dalmore

Everything you need to know about The Dalmore

The spirits market is booming. In October 2019, a bottle of 1926 Macallan FINE+RARE 60-Year Old became the most expensive bottle (of either wine or spirits) ever sold at auction in the world, going for £1.5 million – £300,000 more than the same whisky had sold for a year before.  That record may not have been broken yet, but it’s likely only a matter of time. There was a 33.37% increase in the volume of single malt Scotch whisky sold at auction in 2019, with 143,895 bottles sold, worth close to £58 million – a 41.54% increase on 2018. Over the last 10 years, rare whisky has outperformed every other alternative luxury asset, with 353% growth to 2020 Q2. “The rare whisky market has performed phenomenally well over the last decade, outperforming many other categories. We’ve seen growing demand in premium whisky from clients globally,” says Craig Norton, our Managing Director for the UK and Ireland. In five years, we’ve seen the number of spirits buyers rise by 601%, with spirits sales in the same timeframe growing by 698%.  It’s an exciting time for whisky, with a growing international audience as Scotch whisky exports rise (105% in the last 10 years), especially in developing markets like China (up 323% in 10 years). There are also an increasing number of younger consumers diving into the category nose-first; Sotheby’s first online spirits auction last year saw 42% of buyers aged under 40.  The market has so far been dominated by a handful of the biggest names in single malt Scotch, with The Macallan representing an astonishing 40% of the market by value; however
Japanese whisky isn’t far behind. A bottle of 55-year-old Yamazaki sold for HK$6.2 million (US$795,000) in August last year, setting a new record for the category.  The now-closed Karuizawa has become a cult name among collectors, and had something of a halo effect, as our Head of Spirits David Walters said, “Japanese whisky is still going crazy. We sold the Karuizawa Pearl Geisha 37 Year Old (56.9%) pre-release for £12,500 in bond; just a year later it was going for £24,800. The most expensive single bottle of whisky we’ve sold was a Yamazaki 50-year-old (2011 release), for £170,000.” The last two to three years has, however, seen a shift, with a new focus and interest on not buying just bottles but whole barrels or casks. “The ability to personalise or customise single cask bottling has proven extremely appealing to clients,” Norton says, “However, it’s not simple. Barriers can be a lack of understanding of value, the process of maturation or
reselling, or gaining access to the market.”  “The challenge can be guaranteeing provenance,” explains Walters. “Our preference is always to work directly with the distillery.” The IWSR estimates the value of the Scotch whisky cask market at $40 million – and forecasts a trend for cask sales in other categories, such as Bourbon, rum and other US whiskey. While occasionally we see more mature casks (such as a mature Macallan Sherry butt we sold last year, for £600,000), it is more common to see casks as futures, much like en primeur.  Given the long-term timeframe for producing fine whisky, with the first product often not released for five or 10 years, cask sales have fast become a way for the rising number of new distilleries to build revenue in their early years. It is rare for casks to be sold after the first year of production, however, making them a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get in on a new distillery – one that may just be the next big thing. It’s this excitement, Walters says, that should attract buyers who are also in it for the journey. Naturally, “founders’ casks” – as they are known – are finite in supply, adding to their appeal for collectors. The spirits market remains dominated by single malt Scotch – with Brora, Karuizawa, Dalmore, Bowmore and Springbank amongst the most collected names – but consumers are branching out. “We’re beginning to see collectors diversify their portfolios,” says Walters, “discovering premium and collectable rums.” He highlights the popularity of Caroni – a Trinidad distillery, no longer in production, that has parallels with Karuizawa – and Hampden, in particular. Fortunately, Covid seems to be having little impact on sales. Even in the last year, the
market has seen 12% growth; as Knight Frank reports, “Anecdotally, drinkable investment classes have always down well in a downturn, perhaps as their owners have looked to drown their sorrows.” In fact, IWSR data shows that “between 2008 and 2012, global prestige-plus
spirits (generally $100+) grew 82% in volume, and almost 230% in value, [reinforcing]
the resilience of high-end spirits after economic challenges”. Nevertheless, our advice is always to buy only what you are prepared to drink – a worst-case scenario that few wine or spirits lovers find much of a burden. Browse all whiskies or read more Editorial

The spirits market has seen a decade of astounding performance – but what is happening, and what should you be looking to buy? 

The spirits market is booming. We take a closer look at the spirits market and explore what is happening, and what should you be looking to buy 

The spirits market overview 

In high spirits: market overview

Walt

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