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

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

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

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

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

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

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

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

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               

Inside Burgundy – Jasper Morris MW  Côte de Beaune  Jasper Morris MW’s first assessment of Burgundy 2024 reveals a vintage of extreme adversity yet unexpected classical poise, particularly for whites. An “exceptionally wet year,” marked by poor flowering, mildew pressure, and limited sunshine, made 2024 one of the most challenging recent seasons. Conditions worsened moving north, with the Hill of Corton and northern Beaune hardest hit, while mid-slope vineyards benefited from better drainage and earlier flowering. Harvest was tightly compressed between 12–16 September.  Despite the difficulties, Morris calls 2024 “much more applicable” as a return to classic Burgundy than 2021, especially for whites, where quality is “relatively homogenous” and characterful. He found wines defined by citrus, fresh apple, and, at their best, “rapier-like acidity” and tension. These whites will be “accessible early,” though he warns buyers to avoid those lacking backbone and energy.  Reds are more mixed and occasionally fragile, yet the finest examples show charm and harmony. Morris highlights “aromatic pinots that could make you smile at first sniff,” with unusually refined tannins, aided by a return to a classical 100-day ripening cycle. Village wines and well-managed premiers crus represent the sweet spot of the vintage.  Chablis  Chablis faced the harshest conditions in 2024: floods, frost, hail, and relentless rain, with total rainfall reaching 634 mm and many organic producers harvesting below 10 hl/ha. Some, like Guillaume Vrignaud, “made hardly any wine and sold it off.” Morris expected “green… ugly and flawed” wines but found most were sound and “less fragile than their 2021 counterparts.” While few are truly great, many show classic Chablis character—crisp, defined, with “crushed oyster shell” notes. Best for short- to medium-term drinking, 2024 in Chablis demonstrates resilience and surprising drinkability after a punishing season.  Côte de Nuits  In the Côte de Nuits, Morris sees 2024 as a vintage of delicacy rather than power. Harvest ran 12–16 September, with Nuits-St-Georges hit hard by rain and further north affected by uneven conditions and hail. Losses came mostly from coulure rather than mildew, especially around Gevrey-Chambertin. Whole-bunch fermentation and reduced stem use were key, and while some wines need time to integrate, many show light, perfumed character. “If you like dark coloured powerful wines… there is nothing here for you,” notes Morris. Only 2% of wines achieve top accolades, making careful selection essential.  Explore Jasper Morris MW’s reports, notes and scores on his site (subscribers only)  Vinous – Neal Martin  Neal Martin portrays 2024 as a season of extremes, where relentless rain, frost, and mildew tested every winemaker. Flowering was uneven, yields sharply reduced (Pinot Noir suffered most) and frost damaged parcels from Marsannay to Clos de Vougeot. As one winemaker reflected, “Each day in the vineyard felt like a battle,” capturing the relentlessness of the season. Tiny harvests demanded meticulous vineyard work and careful vinification, with whole-bunch decisions critical: “2024 was not a vintage to play recklessly with stems.”  A sunny, warm August offered salvation, allowing grapes to reach phenolic ripeness. Martin notes it “enabled some to capture the brightness and freshness of vibrant red fruit where Pinot Noir reaches its apex” and lent Chardonnays “razor-sharp tension and delineation.” Whites show energy and mineral clarity, while reds are delicate, transparent, and expressive rather than powerful.  Despite the challenges, skill and perseverance triumphed. Careful vineyard management and thoughtful vinification produced wines of elegance, freshness, and charm. As Martin concludes, “The bottom line is that 2024 is an endlessly fascinating vintage that will enamour the small number who imbibe the fruits of much labour.”  Explore Neal Martin’s reports, notes and scores on the Vinous site (subscribers only)  Burghound – Allen Meadows  Allen Meadows’ Burghound report describes 2024 in the Côte de Nuits as a vintage of extreme difficulty and delicate character. Following “rain, rain, and yet more rain,” growers faced poor flowering, rampant mildew, and historically tiny yields, with clusters sometimes reduced to 15–20 berries. Meadows notes that “the variability in 2024 is that of 2023 squared,” making disease control, rigorous sorting, and careful vinification essential to preserving quality.  Despite the challenges, the best wines are “ultra-fresh, wonderfully energetic, impeccably well-balanced and the most transparent reds we’ve seen since 2010.” Alcohol levels are modest, around 12.5–13%, enhancing clarity and finesse rather than weight or power. Harvest ran from 16–21 September, slightly later than the traditional 100-day rule, allowing vines to achieve ripeness amid persistent rainfall.  Vinification emphasized restraint: light extraction, reduced stem use, and careful temperature control preserved purity and avoided harsh tannins. Minor faults, mostly reduction from copper or sulfur sprays or slight volatile acidity, rarely detract. Meadows notes some wines are “too skinny or too lean,” but the best display crystalline transparency that “puts the intrinsic terroir on parade.”  Most wines suit mid-term cellaring: villages and premiers crus are approachable in 4–8 years, while top grands crus can age 10–15. Stylistically, 2024 reds are elegant and energetic, rewarding careful selection in a year of extreme variability.  Explore Allen Meadows’ reports, notes and scores on the Burghound site (subscribers only) Jancis Robinson – Jancis Robinson Jancis Robinson MW sums up 2024 as “nightmare… misery… exhausting… unremittingly grim,” with “gruesome” final yields. Heavy rain and unusually low temperatures during flowering severely damaged Pinot Noir, particularly in the Côte d’Or, while Chardonnay fared slightly better. Many vignerons abandoned organic viticulture for systemic sprays to save their crops. Pierre-Yves Colin-Morey achieved “respectable, but most unusual for 2024” yields of 35–40 hl/ha only by switching early.  Losses were severe: reds down up to 80%, whites about 30%. Robinson notes that “the cool summer meant acidities were high, and successful reds could be described as pretty, but never concentrated,” with pale color and barely perceptible tannins. Late August brought some warmth, raising sugar levels, though many producers still had to chaptalise. She warns this is “a vintage to drink relatively early,” emphasizing elegance over opulence, fragility over power.  Cellar work was complicated by tiny harvests. Half-full tanks increased the risk of oxidation or stuck fermentations. Oak use was moderated, though some grands crus required up to 50% new barrels to fill them. Extraction and whole-bunch fermentation were carefully managed, with co-fermentation across parcels common.  Despite the challenges, Robinson highlights successful producers including Bertrand Bachelet, Yvon Clerget, Comte Armand, Philippe Colin, Sérafin, and Joseph Drouhin. Regions south of the Côte d’Or fared better, producing more generous, sophisticated wines. She frames 2024 as “a triumph of resilience over nature,” rewarding careful selection and precision in the cellar.  Explore Jancis Robinson's reports, notes and scores on her site (subscribers only) Jancis Robinson – Matthew Hayes  Matthew Hayes describes 2024 as a vintage “all over the shop,” marked by extreme scarcity, mildew pressure, and uneven quality across the Côte d’Or. Some estates, like the newly launched Domaine Henri Rebourseau, produced nothing, while others managed only tiny parcels. Yet Hayes notes, “producers actually had some wine; the second relief was that these had turned out better than feared.” Quality varies by village, vineyard, and even row, making careful selection essential.  The season was relentlessly difficult. Pinot Noir struggled with coulure, millerandage, and mildew, while Chardonnay fared slightly better thanks to earlier flowering. Organic producers faced doubled labor and costs, with some switching to synthetic sprays to save their harvests. Final yields were punishingly low, with red grape losses up to 85%. Harvest began in mid-September, balancing ripeness with botrytis and powdery mildew risks.  Winemaking focused on tiny lots, cautious extraction, and moderate oak. Reds are elegant, medium-bodied, and dominated by red fruit, while whites show precise acidity and finesse. Hayes notes, “This is not the Pinot Noir we have recently come to expect.”  Scarcity keeps prices high, yet the best wines are balanced and surprisingly drinkable. As Hayes concludes, “The bottom line is that 2024 is an endlessly fascinating vintage that will enamour the small number who imbibe the fruits of much labour.”  Explore Matthew Haye’s reports, notes and scores on the Jancis Robinson site (subscribers only) Decanter – Charles Curtis MW Pommard & Volnay 2024: Early-drinking Pinot Noir   Charles Curtis MW highlights Pommard and Volnay as the standouts in 2024, a vintage where Pinot Noir struggled across Burgundy. The northern Côte de Beaune largely avoided the worst rain and mildew, producing wines with the lush, supple fruit the region is known for. Pommard ranges from firm and tannic to approachable, while Volnay shows silky, expressive character.  Yields were exceptionally low: Paul Zinetti of Comte Armand recorded just 15 hl/ha, and Paul Négrerie of Château de Pommard 14 hl/ha. Careful extraction was key to avoid green tannins, producing wines of elegance over ripeness. Frédéric Lafarge notes that Volnay’s 2024 shows purity and terroir expression, comparing it favorably to 2021: “2024 showed more finesse and complexity due to the longer vegetative cycle.” Overall, the vintage is lighter than usual, suited to earlier drinking, though the best wines from top producers can age five to ten years.  Best Value Burgundy 2024 Wines   Finding value in 2024 requires a selective approach, as low prices rarely coincide with scarce wines. Curtis recommends starting with regional appellations, particularly the Hautes-Côtes of Nuits and Beaune, where top performers include Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Nuits Les Dames Huguette (Dufouleur) and Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Beaune blanc (Guiton).  Further south, the Côte Chalonnaise offers excellent options, with Maison Chanzy (Bouzeron), Domaine Belleville (Rully), Château de Chamirey (Mercurey), and Domaine du Cellier aux Moines and Domaine Stéphane Aladame (Givry/Montagny) standing out. Curtis also praises the Mâconnais for Chardonnay, noting “bright acidity, fresh fruit, and solid structure,” with Pouilly-Fuissé in particular shining.  In short, 2024 may be small in volume, but careful exploration of Pommard, Volnay, the Hautes-Côtes, southern Burgundy, and the Mâconnais reveals wines that combine quality, typicity, and attractive drinking windows.  Explore Charles Curtis MW’s reports, notes and scores on the Decanter site (subscribers only) Wine Advocate – Kristaps Karklins
 Kristaps Karklins portrays 2024 in Chablis as a season of extreme attrition, marked by frost, hail and what he calls “historic mildew pressure—among the highest ever recorded.” Yields dropped by “60% to 70% on average,” with some estates losing entire crus, including Dauvissat’s Séchet, Montée de Tonnerre and Les Clos. By late August, rainfall had reached “around 600 millimeters, compared with the average 380,” making healthy fruit scarce and rigorous sorting decisive. Growers who waited to harvest were rewarded with “greater texture and mid-palate amplitude,” while early picking risked under-ripeness and dilution.  Despite the hardships, barrel tastings reveal notable successes. The finest 2024s are “classical Chablis,” defined by tension, clarity and site transparency, and approachable earlier than most vintages. While they cannot rival the concentration of 2023 or 2022, Karklins suggests they may delight purists more than a random selection of riper years. “No one would call 2024 a historic vintage,” he concludes, yet among the best producers the wines are “unmistakably, even nostalgically Chablisien,” rewarding careful selection with freshness, character and authenticity.  Explore Kristaps Karklins reports on the Wine Advocate site (subscribers only) Wine Advocate – William Kelley In a shorter spotlight on Verget and Domaine Guffens-Heynen, William Kelley describes 2024 as wetter and more overcast season following the warmth of 2022 and 2023, though mercifully spared the frost damage that scarred 2021 and 2016. Volumes are reduced, but quality is “solid,” and some wines “transcend the vintage,” reaching levels of maturity that are unusual for such a challenging year. Jean-Marie Guffens likens the domaine’s 2024s to 1998, a vintage that performed better in the Mâconnais than in the Côte de Beaune.  The true stars for Domaine Guffens-Heynen, however, are the bottled 2023s. Kelley ranks 2023 alongside 2020 as one of the finest vintages for domaine in the last 10 to 15 years—and among the best of Guffens’s career. If the 2020s are “almost neoclassical” in style, the 2023s are more flamboyant, setting up a compelling contrast between two outstanding expressions of the domaine that will invite comparison for decades to come.  Explore William Kelley’s reports, notes and scores on the Wine Advocate site (subscribers only) Read the rest of our coverage of Burgundy 2024 here.

The critics are starting to declare their verdict on the 2024 vintage. Here’s your crib-sheet to what the leading names, including Jasper Morris MW, Neal Martin, Allen Meadows, Jancis Robinson, William Kelley and more are saying about the latest Burgundy vintage.

Discover expert insights on Burgundy’s 2024 vintage from the top industry critics. Your essential guide to the latest vintage verdicts.

Burgundy 2024 – what the critics are saying

Burgundy 2024: the critics’ verdict

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

If you ever catch the train into Saint-Emilion, you’ll notice that it runs through the heart of the region’s vines. Just behind the station, on the outskirts of the village, lies Ch. Haut-Simard – an unassuming property that just happens to be owned by the Vauthiers – the same family that is behind Ch. Ausone, one of the region’s most famous estates. Over 15 years after the Vauthier family took over the estate, it’s emerging from the shadows – proving just how good a site it is.  Ch. Simard and Haut-Simard – both owned by the Vauthier family today – were once part of the same property, which dates back to the 16th century, named by the Simard family in 1865. When the railway line between Libourne and Bergerac was built in 1870, it ran straight through the vineyards and divided the estate in two. The railway slices across the foot of the slopes of Saint-Emilion, neatly dividing two different terroirs. North of the railway line lies Haut-Simard with more clay and limestone, while the larger Simard lies to the south on sandier soils.   In 1917, the four hectares of the original Haut-Simard were purchased by Leonard and Charlotte Gratadoux. They built a new house and cellar in 1929 – which is still in use today. Claude “Coco” Mazière – Edouard Vauthier’s great-uncle – bought the winery and 10 hectares of vineyard in 1954, the original Haut-Simard and a slice of Simard. Gradually he acquired the rest of the Simard estate and expanded Haut-Simard, with the two estates growing to 50 hectares in total – and, although the two wines were long made separately, from the 1990s Mazière put all the fruit into Ch. Simard.  Great-uncle Coco managed the estates through to his death in 2008. “He passed away almost in his office,” Edouard tells me – emphasising how Mazière worked almost obsessively to the end of his days. When he died, Alain Vauthier – Edouard’s father, who was already responsible for Ch. Ausone, Ch. Moulin Saint-Georges and Ch. de Fonbel – inherited the Simard estate.  “Look at the maps of the soil and look at where Ch. Haut-Simard is, it’s sand, a little bit of clay and a little bit of limestone – it’s a terroir totally suitable for Cabernet Franc,” Edouard explains. “When you dig a little bit, you realise the water table is 10-15 metres below. It’s very deep and very good soil that can produce a great wine.” Indeed, look at the property’s neighbours and you’ll find some illustrious names: Canon-la-Gaffelière, La Gaffelière, Pavie and Larcis-Ducasse are all a stone’s throw away. Haut-Simard may be a mere seven or eight metres above sea-level, but it’s enough to separate it from the flood plain where much of Simard sits.  Realising the potential, Alain decided to separate Simard and Haut-Simard once more (re-introduced from the 2008 vintage) and set about an extensive replanting program for the 10 hectares of Haut-Simard, putting in swathes of high-density (12,600 vines per hectare) Cabernet Franc in 2008, 2009 and 2010. Where the Haut-Simard vines once had around 80-85% Merlot, now 70% of the vineyard is dedicated to Cabernet Franc – focusing on quality rather than quantity.  Little has changed in the winery since it was built in 1929, and the team still uses the original concrete tanks. The fruit is all picked by hand, with density sorting now routinely used, spending around 20 days on skins, with délestage (rack and return) favoured over punch-downs/pump-overs to allow for gentle extraction. Once pressed off, the wine spends around 14 months maturing in around 20-30% one-year-old barrels and the rest in concrete.  As so much of the vineyard was ripped out, volumes were tiny in the Vauthiers’ first few vintages. Fruit from the young vines started being introduced from 2014 and the blend has continued to shift, with the 2022 the first to contain 70% Cabernet Franc. “It changed totally the game,” Edouard says – explaining how they’re finally seeing the fruits of their labours. Even now, only 2,500 cases are produced each year.  For Edouard, the Merlot on sandier parcels brings notes of strawberry, while on limestone it adds liquorice, complementing the Cabernet Franc’s dark fruit and green bell pepper. That dark fruit has built with each vintage as the new plantings come into the blend and vines mature, lending additional texture and structure. The average age in the vineyard is just 15-16 years now, only set to offer more as it matures. This might be a modest wine, but it’s one that has more than enough capacity to age. “I’m sure it will last 15 years with no problem,” says Edouard.   Tasting through a handful of vintages, it’s amazing to see the evolution of the Haut-Simard style -from the more solid 2016 through to the linear, bright, elegant 2022. It’s a wine that has impressed us en primeur for the last couple of years too – punching far above its weight.   Tasting Ch. Haut-Simard  2016 Ch. Haut-Simard: Plummy, sweet and round, this is full-bodied and concentrated, with real density to the fruit on the palate. It’s fresh, with a saline finish, yet there’s a solidity to this, not having the precision, brightness and aromatics of more recent vintages. Blend: 65% Merlot, 35% Cabernet Franc  2018 Ch. Haut-Simard: The nose of the 2018 Haut-Simard is instantly more expressive than the 2016 – combining red fruit and an herbaceous note with a toasty sweetness. It’s more linear on the palate. The intense core of fruit is rich and tightly packed, framed by grainy tannins at this relatively youthful stage. The finish is long and savoury, with a hint of blackcurrant leaf. Blend: 70% Merlot, 30% Cabernet Franc  2019 Ch. Haut-Simard: Floral, lifted and aromatic – the 2019 Haut-Simard is a world away from the previous vintage. Dainty berry fruit – blackcurrants and redcurrants – lead to an elegant, fine-boned palate. It’s precise and juicy, lithe and balanced with fine, chalky tannins. Blend: 60% Cabernet Franc, 40% Merlot  2022 Ch. Haut-Simard: The 2022 is the unashamed star of our mini-vertical of Haut-Simard, and the vintage Edouard Vauthier points to as a fulcrum point for the estate. The nose is sweet and bright, packed with seamless red berry fruit, along with hints of florals and pencil shavings. It is the palate that is so striking, however, driven and long, linear with graphite-etched tannins and mouthwatering acidity. Vibrant, pinpoint and very, very good – especially for the price. Blend: 70% Cabernet Franc, 30% Merlot  2024 Ch. Haut-Simard: The nose is perfumed, with intense cherries and lifted florals. There’s a lush intensity to the palate, with a mineral line that sup ports the fruit and complements the bright acidity. There’s lovely concentration here with fine tannins that provide a fine-boned framework. 12.7% and 3.74pH. Blend: 80% Cabernet Franc, 20% Merlot [tasted en primeur, May 2025]   Explore all current listings of Ch. Haut-Simard or read more about Bordeaux   

The Vauthier family may be most famous for Ch. Ausone, but they own several estates on the Right Bank. Over the last 15 years, Ch. Haut-Simard has seen particular investment. We sat down with Edouard Vauthier to talk about the property’s transformation – one that you can now taste in the glass 

Over the last 15 years, the Vauthier family has invested significantly in Haut-Simard. We sat down with Edouard Vauthier to talk about the evolution underway 

Change at Ch. Haut-Simard – the Vauthier family estate 

Shifting gears at Ch. Haut-Simard   

It’s not every day that you get to taste wines made over half a century ago – but earlier this month I got to trace CVNE’s flagship Imperial Gran Reserva all the way back to the 1947 vintage. Victor Urrutia, the fifth generation of his family to take the helm of this legendary Rioja producer, put together a tasting of what he called “the dirty dozen” – lining up 12 vintages of Imperial. The wines were chosen to show how the wine speaks across a range of vintages – not just the most famous, but the hot, the cold, the mighty and the mediocre.  CVNE has been making wine in Rioja Alta since 1879, so – even going back to 1947 – this tasting offered just a snapshot of its history. Imperial was created in the early 20th century (1917 is the earliest vintage Urrutia himself has tasted), conceived as “super Rioja”, Urrutia explained. The idea was to make the best wine possible, regardless of its commercial potential, at a time when Rioja didn’t have the prestige of today. Around 50,000 bottles are produced, but – importantly – Imperial isn’t made in every vintage, with the quality of the fruit in some years not meeting CVNE’s stringent standards (there was no 2003, 2006 or 2013, for example, and there won’t be a 2023 either).  For Urrutia, the goal with Imperial now is to reflect each vintage, and fine-tune the wine rather than look for revolution. The early vintages are their benchmark and inspiration. Across the vintages, however, Urrutia points to a “churchy” nose – something he finds is distinctly Imperial and reminiscent of the winery.  It’s easy, perhaps, to forget how well Rioja ages – and not just over a decade or two, but over half a century. The oldest vintage in this tasting, the 1947, was undoubtedly the star – a wine that has retained its freshness, with delicate aromatics and a beautifully long, pure, resolved palate. The entire flight impressed – with the quality of Imperial shining through. Some of Rioja’s legendary vintages featured (the 1970 and 1959, which sit alongside the likes of 1982 and 1964 in the history books), but my personal favourites were the aforementioned 1947, the still compact 2004 (named Wine Spectator’s Wine of the Year in 2013), the brooding 2011 and pretty, elegant 2018.   The Imperial vineyards  The fruit for Imperial Gran Reserva comes from CVNE’s best vineyards, all over 40 years in age and almost all bush vines, yielding around 4,000kg/ha (equivalent to circa 25hl/ha or less than 1.5 tons/acre). The parcels all sit close to the Cantabrian mountains, at around 500-600 metres’ altitude, and on poor but cool soils (clay and limestone) – lending the wines great freshness, even in hot and dry years, explains longtime Technical Director María Larrea.  The village of Villalba de Rioja has been the backbone of the wine since its conception. This village was where the Real de Asúa brothers (who founded CVNE) first bought vineyards, four kilometres from Haro. The vineyards are steep and south-facing, exposed to the winds and some of the vines therefore have to be trellised (cordón Royat), but it brings acidity and freshness to the wine – something that is essential for its ageing potential. Parcels in the villages of Briones and Torremontalbo were added later, in the 1960s. Briones has richer soils, gentle slopes and a warmer climate, giving structure and body to the wine, while Torremontalbo has steep, stony slopes with calcareous soils and a significant diurnal shift, adding minerality and finesse to the blend.  The Imperial blend  The blend has shifted over the years, with the wine originally around 40% Garnacha and 40% Tempranillo, with the remaining 20% Graciano and Mazuelo. The old vineyards were field blends, with the varieties interplanted and harvested together, meaning mixed ripeness levels – something that arguably brought balance and complexity to the wines, even if some of the fruit wouldn’t have been ripe. Nowadays, each variety is planted separately at CVNE – allowing them more control and precision, harvesting each grape at the perfect moment and crafting a blend in the winery.  There was a move away from Garnacha in the 1970s, with more and more Tempranillo planted instead. Garnacha was less appreciated, seen as a workhorse, an impression that was only reenforced when lesser, high-yielding clones were planted in the 1980s and 1990s. As Larrea also noted, Garnacha is much more prone to coulure and millerandage (poor flowering and fruit-set), which may have been another factor in its decline. There was also a time, Urrutia explained, when Bordeaux was the reference point for fine wine, and they looked to imitate the region, favouring Tempranillo for its darker colour versus the more thin-skinned and therefore pale Grenache. Today, the blend is dominated by Tempranillo (with the 2017 and 2018 Imperial both 85% Tempranillo), but Grenache is undergoing a revival across Rioja and – provided they can have the right clonal material and/or older vineyards – it may contribute more to the blend in time.  The proportion of Graciano and Mazuelo has been reduced slightly, but Larrea emphasises how important the two grapes are in the face of climate change. Mazuelo (aka Carignan/Cariñena) provides structure and colour, while Graciano contributes acidity and aromatic complexity.  The winemaking  Although she joined CVNE in 1991, María Larrea took over the winemaking for Imperial with the 2005 vintage, following on from Basilio Izquierdo, who had been running things for over 30 years (since 1973). Before Izquierdo came Ezequiel García, known as “El Brujo” (“The Wizard”), winemaker for CVNE for over three decades (he returned briefly in 2014 to recreate their legendary white, Monopole).  Across the three winemakers and almost 70 years, surprisingly little has changed. The winemaking here remains extremely traditional, although technology has allowed the team to monitor the wines more closely, and for better winery hygiene, as in most regions. Fermentation remains indigenous, although it’s no longer spontaneous – the wines have been inoculated with a selected strain of their indigenous yeast since the early 2010s (with some experiments in the 1990s). Traditionally fermentation was in concrete tank, however this moved to oak in the 1990s, with one lone vintage (1994) fermented in stainless steel when the vats hadn’t arrived in time.  The wines used to be stored in barrel and only bottled when they were sold, so some older vintages of Imperial spent over a decade in barrel, while today the wine normally stays in barrel for between two and three years. (The bottling dates for each of the vintages is included below – the 1947 wasn’t bottled until 1960!) Originally the oak was all American, simply because that is what they had access to via their historic trade routes, and the barrels were kept for decades (Larrea remembers using 40-year-old barrels when she arrived in the 1990s). CVNE gradually started introducing French oak in the 1980s, with around 30% French oak used in the 1990s and around 60-70% today, with the remainder American.   The wines: tasting eight decades of CVNE Imperial  A note on the bottles themselves: older vintages are in green glass, however they moved to brown glass around 10-15 years ago.  2018 Imperial Gran Reserva: This was a real highlight of the vertical. It is very youthful still, fruit-forward, yet with amazing finesse and delicacy. The nose is precise with dainty aromatics of spice, graphite and florals alongside the crystalline fruit. The palate is juicy and lithe, pure, silken and fresh with savoury tobacco and dried red berries filling the mouth-watering finish. Beautiful and very open, even now. Fermented in oak, 14% alcohol and bottled July 2021.  2017 Imperial Gran Reserva: Frosts swept across much of Europe in late April in 2017, although the rest of the season was relatively warm, producing a tiny crop of concentrated fruit. It’s a drastically different wine to the 2018, yet still with great freshness and a floral lift alongside ripe, sweet red fruit. The palate is tight, much less approachable than the 2018, with compact tannins, a bite of crunchy acidity and a grip of firm tannins, while smoky tones that fill the finish. Decant to enjoy now, but this will be even better with a couple more years in bottle. Fermented in oak, 14% alcohol and bottled July 2020.  2015 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 2015 Imperial is dark and intense, layered with rich bramble fruit, cedar, tobacco, spice and something meaty – a hint of biltong, perhaps. The palate echoes the concentration of the nose, with chewy tannins and a line of acidity that cuts through its intensity. Powerful, almost stern, with more dried fruit coming out with air, the finish is long and savoury, with a touch of red miso. Fermented in oak, 14.5% alcohol and bottled June 2018.  2011 Imperial Gran Reserva: Another standout in the vertical, the 2011 Imperial offers a dark and pure nose, still surprisingly primary with black cherry and cassis fruit, lifted by sweet spicy perfume. The palate is silken and pure, still so youthful, flowing across the tongue, framed by firm but integrated tannins. It’s concentrated and long, with floral aromatics dancing on the juicy finish. Hard to resist with great balance. Fermented in oak, 13.5% alcohol and bottled July 2014.  2009 Imperial Gran Reserva: This is a very serious Imperial now at a lovely stage of maturity – with savoury undergrowth and spicy notes sitting alongside the vibrant dark berry fruit. The palate is intense yet with a softness to it, despite the chewy framework of tannins. It’s juicy and expressive, with smoky, spicy, tobacco notes playing on the finish, and just the slightest hint of leather starting to appear. Fermented in oak, 13.8% alcohol and bottled January 2013.  2004 Imperial Gran Reserva: From “a textbook vintage” in CVNE CEO Victor Urrutia’s words, the 2004 is shining. Pencil shavings and bacon complement ripe, dark fruit. The palate is tight and compact, yet with a juiciness that elongates the whole thing, with acidity that drives through to the long finish. The tannins are supple and soft, integrated with the fruit, but still offer a grip on the finish. Bright and effortlessly balanced. Fermented in oak, 13.8% alcohol and bottled October 2008.  1994 Imperial Gran Reserva: This is an intriguing vintage of Imperial, the only one ever to have been fermented in stainless steel as they were switching from cement to wood, but the new vats didn’t arrive in time for the vintage. It was also served at the wedding of Spain’s Crown Prince, who later became King Felipe VI. After the 2004, this marks a shift towards wines dominated by tertiary notes, although there’s still plenty of fruit here. The nose is spicy with mushroom and undergrowth alongside incense and leathery tones. The palate is laden with umami – with fresh leather and dried berry fruit – as well as dried strawberries, supple tannins and refreshing acidity. Fermented in stainless steel, 13.16% alcohol and bottled June 1998.  1980 Imperial Gran Reserva: As CEO Victor Urrutia said, 1980 was “a shit vintage” – and has always been in the shadow of 1981 and 1982. Tasting the wine today, that’s probably fair – however it’s still an impressive wine. The nose has a distinctly herbal, menthol edge to the sweet fruit – macerated strawberries, with a balsamic hint. The tannins still offer bite, while the fruit shifts to darker, more bramble tones towards the finish. Fermented in concrete, 13.4% alcohol and bottled May 1985.  1970 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 1970 vintage was hot and produced powerful wines – earning it a reputation as one of Rioja’s finest vintages. After over 50 years, the wine is intensely savoury – combining soy, marmite and barnyard tones with intense, dark fruit. With air, the wine offers layers of spice (almost reminiscent of paprika), bacon frazzles and smoked almonds, complementing the concentrated core of fruit. It’s intense yet balanced, with bright acidity that keeps everything fresh and fills the long finish. Fermented in concrete, 12.97% alcohol and bottled March 1975.  1968 Imperial Gran Reserva: From a more difficult vintage, the 1968 Imperial has a charming nose that seamlessly combines savoury and sweet – with earthy richness that sits alongside incense-inflected berry fruit and a pleasing herbal note. The palate is elegant and vibrant, with plenty of fruit still driving through its core, while more savoury, smoky notes dominate the finish. Fermented in concrete, 12.7% alcohol and bottled April 1974.  1959 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 1959 vintage is another of Rioja’s most lauded, although I suspect this bottle was not showing its best. There’s a plushness and intensity to the palate, with a sharp drive of acidity, while the nose is dominated by leather, black liquorice and barnyard. Fermented in concrete, 13% alcohol and bottled February 1968.  1947 Imperial Gran Reserva: An amazing wine to tasted, the 1947 CVNE Imperial has a reputation – one that this bottle more than lived up to. Coffee and tobacco notes with bright fruit – ripe red cherry and raspberry, as well as florals, incense, black tea and sage, alongside smoky perfume. It’s long and fresh on the palate, seamless and fully resolved but pure and persistent, with a Bovril edge to the finish which is vibrant and long. Gorgeous now – drink it while you have the chance. Fermented in concrete, 12.4% alcohol and bottled August 1960.  Explore all CVNE listings, including a range of back-vintages of Imperial Gran Reserva, or read more Editorial 

Earlier this month, CVNE hosted a once-in-a-lifetime tasting of their Imperial Gran Reserva. Sophie Thorpe explores what makes the wine so special and how it has evolved over eight decades 

Exploring CVNE’s flagship Gran Reserva Rioja, Imperial, back to 1947 at a once-in-a-lifetime tasting with CEO Victor Urrutia 

Tasting CVNE’s Imperial Gran Reserva Rioja 2018-1947 

An icon through the ages: CVNE’s Imperial Gran Reserva 

The 2024 vintage in Bordeaux brought record rainfall – but there’s much more to the year than this. As the first wines are released, Sophie Thorpe reports on a complicated year and the wines it produced

Explore the 2024 vintage in Bordeaux and the wines it produced – looking at the growing season and style of the wines as they’re released en primeur

Bordeaux 2024 wines en primeur – vintage overview

Bordeaux 2024: vintage overview  

Patricia Green

United States

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About description for demonstration purposes

shows all the items you currently store with us. These items can be sold, delivered or transferred.

At {shortName}

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represents all the wines that are in your possession and have been consumed.

This is the price you paid for this item.

Cost price

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The lowest price you're willing to sell at.

shows all the items that you have pre-ordered, including en primeur wines, and all the items on your watchlist.

Futures

You can set a sell price on items you're selling based on a % of current unit net value.

You can set a market price on items you're selling based on a % of current unit net value.

shows all the actions that you have taken on items in your Portfolio.

History

shows all the items that are currently in transit to or from {shortName}.

In transit

Local delivery is free for orders over HK$1,800 (to a single location). For orders below this value, delivery is HK$150 for up to four cases and HK$50 per case thereafter.

Shipping starts from €15 within Italy and €45 to Switzerland and the rest of Europe for up to 48 bottles (75cl). Costs vary by destination. Larger shipments can be quoted on request.

The date shown below is when your order will ship from our local warehouse. Your final delivery date, along with full tracking details, will be provided once our team has processed your request.

You can arrange collection from our Retail store on 22nd Floor, 8 Wyndham Street, Central Hong Kong.
Collection times are between 9:30am-13:00 and 14:00-18:00pm, Monday to Friday. We are closed on public holidays.

You can arranged collection from our warehouse STI INTERNAZIONALE SPA, on Viale del Lavoro, 57, 37051 Bovolone, Verona.
Pick-up hours are between 8:30 AM to 12:30 PM and 1:30 PM to 5:30 PM, Monday to Friday. We are closed on public holidays.

This is the current estimated market value for this item.

Manually set prices will be overwritten. Already listed wines are not affected.

Updates all unlisted wines to current market price.

Set all at market

represents all the wines you currently have in your Portfolio that aren't stored with us. Press the

My cellar

Name

Net price

New portfolio available

New portfolio

You do not have any invoices at this time.

shows all the items from your Portfolio that are currently on the market.

On sale

shows all the items you currently have in your Portfolio. You can perform individual actions on them from this page.

Overview

shows any items that are currently awaiting user action.

Pending

This is the dynamic estimated value of the item with trading margin removed.

This is the amount of profit you will receive if your listing sells.

Pre-authorised payments enable automatic transactions on your behalf, ensuring seamless and hassle-free payments. This allows recurring charges, subscriptions, or scheduled payments to be processed without manual approval each time.

The number of cases you wish to place on sale

Your catalogue item will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Your catalogue items will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Before you request delivery, you can adjust the quantity for each item in your selection below.

* At time of sale a 15% trading fee will be deducted from the final sale price.

Total estimated value*'

The fixed custom price you wish to sell each item for.

Split into {caseSize} individual {bottleSize}cl bottles.

Title

shows all the items you currently store with us. These items can be sold.

Available for sale — items stored with {name} eligible to be listed on the marketplace.

Profile

This item is at Vinfolio, available for storage or shipping. For more information on shipping and handling visit vinfolio.com/shipping

This item is at FINE+RARE HOME Hong Kong, available for delivery or local pickup. Most Hong Kong deliveries can be made within 3 working days, an exact date will be available when arranging delivery. International deliveries have longer lead-times, please contact us for details.

Wines sold en primeur will be released from the producer after bottling, typically 18 months after the so-called campaign ends. Upon arrival your wine will be stored at Vinfolio in our temperature-controlled warehouse until you decide to take delivery.

We will source this item at the guaranteed price from our network of suppliers and arrange expedited shipment to FINE+RARE.
 The lead-time depends on many variables, but 2-4 weeks is typical for expedited sourcing.
 Once your order is confirmed, we'll keep you updated on its ETA.
 Every item is checked on arrival by our expert team, with photographs available on request (please note that charges may apply).

When a wine is on "pre-arrival", it means that we have a confirmed order on the bottles from our supplier and we are simply waiting for the winery or distributor to ship the wine to us. The delivery timeframe for pre-arrival wines varies significantly, depending on where the wine is coming from. We will notify you once they arrive at our warehouse and, at that point, you can decide to arrange shipping or list them for sale.

Patricia Green

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