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

Earlier this month, I returned to Auxey Duresses to spend time at the Domaine and taste the 2026 Maison Leroy release in full. This was a significant visit.

We tasted more than 25 wines across vintages, appellations and styles, which allowed for a level of depth and comparative understanding that is rarely possible with Maison Leroy. It is a way of tasting that strips away hierarchy and focuses entirely on expression, timing and intent.

Having visited consistently for more than 12 years, and multiple times each year, I have seen many releases in different forms. I can say with confidence that this is the most complete and compelling Maison Leroy selection I have encountered. It is an exceptional release. The 2026 Maison Leroy collection tasted as a modern collection in the fullest sense. What gives it its shape every year are wines drawn from different years, now brought together at a point where Madame believes the wines have something extraordinary to say. However, this felt like the first Maison collection to begin to mirror, with real conviction, the superlative character of Domaine Leroy.

There is range here, certainly, across appellation, level and vintage. Each feels released at precisely the point where evolution had hardened rather than softened its definition.

That is what gives the release its outright drinkability — an unflattering expression to many, and perhaps one not preferred at the Maison, but these were wines of serious joy and poise.

What makes the 2026 release especially significant is that it presents Maison Leroy in a form that feels entirely of the present, while carrying the same gravitas, refinement and inner control that have come to define the Domaine at its highest level. The result is a Maison collection of unusual stature: one that stands on its own terms, yet also comes closer than any previous release to reflecting the authority and brilliance associated with the Domaine’s dominant era. Process and Élevage To understand Maison Leroy, one must first understand the process. Every wine is tasted blind by Madame Lalou Bize Leroy before any decision is made. Hundreds of wines are assessed each year, with producer, appellation and reputation set aside. Rarely do new wines make the cut. Only when a wine meets her standard does it carry the Leroy name. That responsibility remains directly hers. It is only the beginning. Once secured, the wines are transferred to the cellars, where they enter a long and closely controlled élevage. For the reds, with Bourgogne Rouge the sole exception, every wine completes its élevage in used Domaine Leroy barrels, regardless of appellation. Village or premier cru, classification gives way to quality. Each wine is handled according to its potential, allowing a level of refinement and integration that rises above hierarchy. The same philosophy applies to the whites. With Bourgogne Blanc the exception, the wines complete their élevage in used Domaine d’Auvenay oak barrels. The foundation of Maison Leroy Maison Leroy is the original cornerstone of one of Burgundy's most influential and enduring families. Founded in 1868 by François Leroy in Auxey-Duresses, the business began as a négociant operation with access to vineyards across the Côte d'Or, including Auxey-Duresses, Meursault, Pommard, Chambertin, Musigny, Clos Vougeot and Richebourg. At the time, the wines were not bottled under the Leroy name, instead being sold through the Comptoir des Propriétaires de la Côte d'Or. Under Joseph Leroy, the Maison expanded commercially, before Henri Leroy fundamentally reshaped its trajectory. In 1942, during a period of uncertainty in Burgundy, Henri acquired a 50% stake in Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. His stewardship was instrumental in restoring and elevating the estate to its modern standing at the very pinnacle of fine wine. While the négociant arm continued, it was under Lalou Bize-Leroy that Maison Leroy assumed its modern identity. Joining the family business in 1955 and taking control in 1971, Lalou transformed the Maison into something far more exacting: a house defined by independence, absolute selection and long-term vision. Maison Leroy sits at the centre of a wider Leroy ecosystem, alongside Domaine Leroy and Domaine d'Auvenay – each representing distinct, yet complementary, expressions of the same uncompromising philosophy — wines that consistently transcend AOC convention. The forthcoming Domaine Leroy release will offer a contrasting perspective – rooted in vineyard ownership and production, yet entirely equivalent in rarity, prestige and ultimate quality.  The 2026 Maison Leroy collection will be released soon. Read more about Maison Leroy and browse all current listings 

Managing Director Craig Norton returns to Auxey-Duresses for a tasting unlike any other – the 2026 Maison Leroy collection in full, and what it reveals about one of Burgundy's most singular houses.

The 2026 Maison Leroy collection in full — selected by Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy, released only when ready. 


The 2026 Maison Leroy Collection

About Académie du Vin Founded in Paris in 1973 by Steven Spurrier, the Académie du Vin was the first wine school in France open to the public. It has long been associated with thoughtful, independent wine scholarship and with bringing clarity, context, and critical insight to the world’s great wine regions. About this article This article presents the introduction to Côte d’Or: The wines and winemakers of the heart of Burgundy (2nd Edition) by Raymond Blake. In it, Blake sets the scene for Burgundy’s most revered stretch of vineyard, exploring the historical, cultural and human forces that shape the Côte d’Or. The introduction offers essential context on place, tradition and the vignerons themselves—laying the groundwork for a deeper understanding of Burgundy’s wines and the people behind them. Introduction The Côte d’Or, the Golden Slope, enjoys a reputation and exerts an influence in the wine world out of all proportion to its size. It possesses none of the grandeur of the Douro Valley, for instance, nor the picture-postcard beauty of South Africa’s winelands. It is not majestic; its beauty is serene, and what strikes the observer time and again is the tiny scale. From north to south it is about 50 kilometres long, is sometimes less than a kilometre wide, and can be driven in little more than an hour. At a push it could be walked in a day. Yet for a thousand or more years this favoured slope has yielded wines that have entranced and delighted wine lovers, with a fair measure of frustration and disappointment thrown in too. Avoiding hyperbole when writing about the Côte d’Or is a problem, for it has held people in thrall for centuries, frequently prompting poetic flights of prose: ‘The Pathetic Fallacy resounds in all our praise of wine … This Burgundy seemed to me, then, serene and triumphant … it whispered faintly, but in the same lapidary phrase, the same words of hope.’ Thus wrote Evelyn Waugh in Brideshead Revisited eighty years ago. Literary critics might cavil at such prolixity, and Waugh himself tamed it severely in later editions, but it was enough to intrigue me decades ago and engender a love for the region and its wines that has never waned. Greater Burgundy is a bigger, more geographically diverse, region than might first be supposed, stretching from Chablis, south-east of Paris, to Beaujolais, north of Lyon. The subject matter of this book, however, is Burgundy’s heart, the Côte d’Or. There is no more celebrated stretch of agricultural land on earth. It has been pored over and analysed, feted and cosseted, obsessed about and sought after for centuries and today, if anything, it exerts a greater pull on wine lovers than ever before. ‘Astronomical’ does not begin to describe the prices now being paid for prized patches of grand and premier cru vineyard, and for the wines produced from them by the top domaines. Such prices hog the headlines and paint a dazzling, though severely one-dimensional, picture of the Côte d’Or today. In the early years of the twenty-first century they are part of the story but they are not the only part. This book aims to get behind the dazzle and flesh out the story, to add some nuance and extra dimension. The Côte d’Or cannot be captured in a sound bite nor, it must be admitted, in a book of this scope – but my hope is that it may add another chapter to the ever-unfolding tale, setting it in the early years of the twenty-first century, a period that may come to be considered by future historians as a golden age for Burgundy but which has brought its own challenges in the shape of those ludicrous prices, the scandal of premature oxidation in the white wines, and the increasing challenge of dealing with extreme weather events such as hail and spring frost. The Côte d’Or has been the subject of forensic scrutiny for centuries, generating a library of books, so why another one now? For the simple reason that it is ever changing. Every year sees new names added to the producers’ roster and old ones slipping away, and thanks to this ongoing evolution the infant domaine of today can be the superstar of tomorrow. The core of the book comprises about a hundred producer profiles. Many fine domaines and négociants whose wines I am happy to purchase and drink have not found a place here. It is important to stress that they have not been included, rather than excluded, simply for reasons of space. The aim was to feature a representative collection of producers, not a top-down selection of the most celebrated names in descending order of renown. As a consequence this book is not, nor was it ever intended to be, a comprehensive A to Z of producers. I write as an amateur du vin, an enthusiast whose admiration for the wines of Burgundy stretches back over four decades, and who has been visiting the region and writing about the wines for some thirty years. I do not trade in wine. I try to see beyond the wine to get something of the backstory, the story of people and place that makes the Côte d’Or so fascinating. To examine the wines in isolation is to dislocate them from that, and not knowing something of the backstory precludes a full understanding of them. A broad lens must be brought to bear on the côte. Too narrow, and the wood will never be seen for the trees. I have learned much by coming across things serendipitously rather than dashing hither and thither, seeing a lot but noticing little. Without time for assimilation and reflection, subtlety and shade are missed. Finally, no gustatory experience can match the thrill of a great Côte d’Or red drunk at its peak. The colour, crimsoned by age; the heavenly scent, perfumed with notes of sweet decay; a sauvage edge, the palate lively and tingling, managing to be so many things at once, oscillating between fruit and spice and meat and game, a merry-go-round of flavour, spiralling on the palate, refusing to be pinned down by anything so prosaic as a tasting note. All the primary components melded by age and yielding up new ones, unsignalled when the wine was young. Everything cohesive and in harmony, like a great orchestra playing at its best. Above all, vital and living, endlessly enchanting and intriguing, engaging the palate and the spirit like no other wine. Learn more about Raymond Blake's Côte d'Or (2nd edition) Shop all books from the Académie du Vin Library Visit the Académie du Vin website

Explore Burgundy with the introduction from Raymond Blake's book: Côte d'Or: The wines and winemakers of the heart of Burgundy. Blake tells the whole story of this hugely influential region, painting a complete picture of life there: the history, landscape, climate, culture and people.

Discover Raymond Blake's Côte d'Or (2nd Edition): a deep dive into Burgundy's wines, winemakers, history, culture and the people behind this iconic region.

Raymond Blake on the Côte d'Or

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

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  

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

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

Natural Wine’s Influence on Burgundy

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

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 

The Reynaud wines are the stuff of legend. Utter “Rayas” to a certain crowd and they will swoon. The singular style of this iconic Châteauneuf-du-Pape estate – pale, hauntingly aromatic, almost Burgundian in texture and incredibly long-lived – has a fervent following, a clan of Reynaud obsessives keen to seek out everything that Emmanuel Reynaud touched.  The property’s rustic charm – a far cry from the grandiose buildings of many famous estates – combined with the family’s inclination to shy away from their fame, happier quietly farming their vines, has only fanned the flames. Tucked away in the northern reaches of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Ch. Rayas and its owners are elusive – only making them more sought-after.   There is no shortage of praise for these rare and special wines – whose appeal, given the Reynaud’s minimal-intervention approach, broaches the worlds of fine and natural wine. William Kelley is a loyalist, and is one of several to note how well the property performs in “off-vintages” – where the property’s distinctive profile shines through, above and beyond the vintage and region, revealing their “captivating perfume, sensual textures and eternal youthfulness”. Robert Parker described the 1990 Rayas as “one of the greatest young red wines I have ever tasted”. For Nicolas Grainacher (Vinous), “The substance, finesse and intensity packed into these wines make it hard not to fall in love with them.” Neal Martin (Vinous) perhaps put it most concisely: “God invented wine to drink wines like this.”    The history of the Reynaud empire  In 1880, Albert Reynaud, a notary from Avignon, lost his hearing aged just 45. No longer able to work as a lawyer, he bought an estate in Châteauneuf-du-Pape, in an area called Rayas, where he saw out his days farming vines, apricots and olives. In 1910, his son Louis Reynaud took over running the estate. Louis had studied agriculture in Angers and was particularly interested in viticulture. He uprooted trees to plant new vineyards and bottled the property’s first wine in 1920 – using the name “Rayas”, the name of the forest on their parcel of land. It was the beginning of Rayas as we know it today.  Louis famously added the wording “Premier Grand Cru” to the Rayas labels, a self-pronounced classification of the wine – and notoriously defying the appellation rules (introduced in 1936). Building the property’s reputation and sales, he started expanding the business. Between 1935 and 1938 he bought Ch. des Tours in Vacqueyras, entrusting his son Bertrand with the larger 58-hectare property northeast of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, not far from the town of Orange. Around the same time, he built a new cellar and winery at Rayas, bringing the buildings within the appellation’s boundaries. After the Second World War in 1945, Louis purchased Ch. de Fonsalette, an estate further north of Orange, in Lagarde-Paréol – and, with that, the full suite of Reynaud properties was in place.  By the time Louis passed away in 1978, the Reynaud wines were some of the Rhône’s most famous.  
After his death, his youngest son Jacques took over Rayas and Fonsalette, while Bertrand continued to run Ch. des Tours. With the shift in ownership at Rayas and Fonsalette, quality dipped a little – but soon Jacques was making wines that lived up to the Reynaud name.  The old vines at Rayas, planted on sandy soils, facing north/northeast, surrounded by pine forest, produce wines of exceptional elegance and aromatic finesse, wines with haunting perfume, pale colour and almost Pinot-like delicacy, yet phenomenal persistence and ageability.   Jacques was renowned for being eccentric. A recluse, happiest in the vines and never keen to welcome visitors, he was rumoured to, on occasion, lie in a ditch to avoid journalists or other members of the trade. His aversion to the limelight surely only added to the wines’ allure. He died rather suddenly in 1997, while shoe shopping in Courthézon. Having no children of his own, his nephew Emmanuel – Bertrand’s son, who had been running Ch. des Tours since 1989 – inherited both Rayas and Fonsalette, taking the reins across all three properties.  The transition between Jacques and Emmanuel wasn’t seamless, as Emmanuel renovated the estate and replanted parts of the site, but by the early 2000s quality was once more living up to the Reynaud name. The style has shifted between generations, and while Jacques’s wines were more structured and solid, Emmanuel favoured more sensual, perfumed expressions. Over the last two decades, little has changed across the Reynaud properties – the wines’ mythical status only confirmed with each release. The new generation – Emmanuel’s sons Louis Damien and Benoît – are now continuing the family’s legacy.    The Reynaud philosophy  The approach at Reynaud is old-school – here, tradition reigns. Modern monoculture is not the method – with various crops across the estates, and biodiversity nurtured with swathes of woodland. The vines – all bush vined, many with significant age – are farmed in exactly the way as they’ve always been, organically with minimal inputs, ploughed by horse.  The fruit is all hand-harvested, whole-bunch fermented with indigenous yeast in cement tanks. Since Emmanuel took over, parcels have all been vinified separately. Macerations are gentle, generally under two weeks with a single pump-over a day. Ageing is in large, old oak, with no new wood used anywhere across the properties – indeed the youngest demi-muid or foudre at the estate may well be 30 years in age. Sulphur additions are minimal, with only a small amount at fermentation and a final addition at bottling, with the wines bottled unfined and unfiltered. The method is simplicity at its finest, focused on expressing each site – and the results speak for themselves. The wineries are rustic farm buildings, offering only the basic requirements, with no modern technology employed – and, given the wines produced, not needed.  Grenache is the core of all the Reynaud wines – the grape that thrives in their terroir and is the magic behind Rayas. Beyond Rayas, Cinsault is used to bring elegance and suppleness, while Syrah was long avoided – used only at Ch. de Fonsalette. Louis Reynaud believed the variety belonged in the Northern Rhône, and other than the small portion that made it into the Côtes du Rhône, the rest of the Syrah was sold off in bulk under his reign (often to local restaurants, who used it in their sauces). The Côtes du Rhône Syrah cuvée only introduced under Jacques Reynaud’s tenure, at first sold to the restaurants who had seen its quality in their sauces. There is no Mourvèdre at any of the estates, as Emmanuel Reynaud believed that their soils are too dry for the grape.  The Reynaud wines and estates  The Reynaud family comprises three distinct estates – Rayas, Fonsalette and Ch. des Tours, although Fonsalette doesn’t have its own winery.   Ch. Rayas  Rayas is the original Reynaud estate, purchased in 1880, and takes its name from the climat. In the northern reaches of Châteauneuf-du-Pape lie the 12 hectares of vines, surrounded by 11 hectares of forest. Forget the region’s stereotypical galets roulés or pudding stones, known for their ability to hold heat, Rayas sits on red, iron-rich, sandy soils, over richer clay. The soils are poor and the bush vines planted at low density, with a mere 2,500 vines per hectare – yielding just 10 to 20hl/ha. Significant replanting took place in the 1980s, meaning the vines now average 40 years in age, although there are still some survivors from the 1940s.  The site’s northern exposition combines with the influence of the wooded areas, offering shade and humidity, making for an extended growing season and preserving freshness in the wines. The Reynauds are among the last to harvest, often only picking in October/November, as much as two months after their neighbours. The resulting wines, however, do not speak of intense ripeness – but are all about elegance and finesse.  While Châteauneuf permits 13 red varieties, at Rayas you’ll find only Grenache Noir, with two hectares dedicated to white grapes – Grenache Blanc and Clairette. The Grenache vineyards can be divided into three section: Le Levant, Le Coeur and Le Couchant, each taking its name from its exposure to the sun – respectively as it rises, at its peak and as it sets. Writing for The World of Fine Wine, William Kelley describes the three components of the vineyard thus: “Le Levant is the most floral and ethereal, contributing the wine’s spine; Le Coeur is the most complete, contributing Rayas’s skeleton; and Le Couchant, with its richer, more compote-like fruit tones, brings the fat.”  The fruit is all hand-picked. The Grenache is kept on its stems, the whole bunches crushed before a gentle maceration for maximum two weeks (one pumpover a day) and indigenous-yeast fermentation. The wine is pressed off and aged in old foudre for a little under two years.  The delicacy and finesse of the resulting wine is reminiscent of top Burgundy. Pale in colour, Rayas is deeply aromatic, with haunting floral notes and an ethereal, silken texture that balances the wine’s earthy, savoury intensity. Between 1,200 and 1,500 cases of the flagship Châteauneuf-du-Pape are produced each year. The wines age beautifully and Emmanuel himself recommended waiting 20-25 years before opening a bottle of Rayas to fully experience its evolution.  The white grapes are planted across three parcels in Le Levant, comprising two hectares. The Grenache Blanc was planted in the 1940s, ’50s and ’95, with the Clairette planted in 1986. Fermented in old (80 to 100 years old) foudre, purchased second-hand by Louis Reynaud (Emmanuel’s grandfather), Rayas Blanc is a 50:50 blend of Grenache Blanc and Clairette, aged in old oak for around 11 months. The wine is made in extremely limited volumes, with only 400 or so cases produced each vintage. Rich yet poised, this rare white is immensely fragrant with notes of almond and white flowers, intensely mineral and textured, and can age for at least a decade.  Pignan is sometimes considered a “second wine” at Rayas, but it in fact comes from it own, specific site on the estate, a single two-hectare block surrounded by pine trees on the northern edge of the property with less sandy soils. Also pure Grenache, made in exactly the same way at Rayas, it offers a more immediate and approachable expression of the Rayas style, yet similar perfume, purity and structure – and is still capable of extended ageing. It can, on occasion – and especially in cooler vintages, rival its older sibling, Rayas. Around 650 cases are produced each year.  The Rayas wines are all only released when entering their drinking window, with the reds often only emerging from the estate over a decade after the harvest.  Ch. de Fonsalette  The “latest” addition to the Reynaud galaxy, Ch. de Fonsalette was purchased by Louis Reynaud in 1945. The property is large, covering 120 hectares in total, but with 12 hectares of vines in amongst woodland, farmland and olive groves, north of Orange in Lagarde-Paréol. Today it sits largely within the Côtes du Rhône Villages Massif d’Uchaux appellation (established in 2005), however the wines are all labelled just as Côtes du Rhône. Further north, the microclimate is cooler than at Rayas, and stylistically the wines are more restrained than those of Ch. des Tours, for example, but not as ethereal as those of Rayas.  The soils here are very different to those at Rayas with gravel, sand and red pudding stones. The vineyards are planted to Grenache, Cinsault and Syrah for red grapes, and Grenache Blanc, Clairette and Marsanne for whites. The vines are generally old, with the oldest planted in 1929.  The philosophy in the vineyard and winery is exactly the same as at Rayas – and, as the property doesn’t have a winery of its own, the wines are even made at Rayas. The reds are whole-bunch fermented, with a maximum two-week maceration and one pump-over a day. The wines are aged in a combination of enamel-lined tanks and large, old oak, bottled around a year or so later.   There are three wines in the range at Ch. de Fonsalette. The Côtes du Rhône Rouge is a blend of 50% Grenache, 35% Cinsault and 15% Syrah, the notably high percentage of Cinsault giving the wine particular lift and aromatic finesse – a wine that whispers and draws you in. There is a second red, a Côtes du Rhône Syrah which is 100% Syrah – a structured, dark-fruited wine that offers restrained power and quiet depth. Under Louis Reynaud, this was sold off in bulk, only first bottled under Jacques Reynaud (from 1978) and sold locally, largely to restaurants, before being offered more widely under Emmanuel. The Côtes du Rhône Blanc is a blend of 80% Grenache Blanc, 10% Clairette and 10% Marsanne, producing a textural and complex white with notes of stone fruit and herbs, and a saline undertow.  La Pialade  This wine is a slight anomaly in the Reynaud line-up. Only made in certain vintages, La Pialade Côtes du Rhône is vinified and aged at Rayas, made with declassified parcels from either Rayas or Ch. de Fonsalette. The blend is typically 85% Grenache, 15% Cinsault and 5% Syrah. Produced in tiny volumes, and even rarer given it isn’t made every year, it is often described as an “everyday Rayas” – more open in style, but can match Rayas for its subtlety and delicacy, even if it does not have the same depth.  Ch. des Tours   Purchased by Louis Reynaud in the late 1930s, Ch. des Tours was Emmanuel Reynaud’s home estate – having taken over running the property from his father Bertrand in 1989. As it was entrusted to Bertrand from the beginning, and never managed by Jacques Reynaud, the estate has always stood apart from Ch. Rayas and Ch. de Fonsalette – however all three have fallen under Emmanuel since 1997. Benoît – Emmanuel’s son, who studied oenology in Switzerland – has recently taken the lead at Ch. des Tours, having worked closely alongside his father.  The property gets its name from the towers or tours that frame the château building. Located in Vacqueyras, not far from Orange and northeast of Châteauneuf, it covers 40 hectares, with grains and olives as well as grapes. As it was long run separately, the property has its own winery.  Although the Reynaud philosophy runs through all three estates, the wines at Ch. des Tours are stylistically distinctive, offering more structure, muscle and intensity versus the more subtle, high-toned, perfumed style of Rayas and Fonsalette. The winemaking is largely similar to at Rayas and Fonsalette, with fermentation is concrete and maturation in old oak. Although the red grapes are mostly whole-bunch fermented, this is the only property where small portions are destemmed. The range is more complex at Ch. des Tours with a selection of wines bottled under Ch. des Tours, some under Domaine des Tours and a rosé made under the Parisy label.  There are five wines under the Ch. des Tours label:  Vacqueyras: A blend of 80% Grenache and 20% Syrah, this is a structured and powerful wine made exclusively from the oldest vines on the estate.  Côtes du Rhône Rouge: A blend of 65% Grenache, 20% Syrah and 15% Cinsault, this is a supple, juicy red packed with fruit and spice.   Côtes du Rhône Rouge Grande Réserve: Only made in specific vintages, this is effectively the Vacqueyras declassified when there isn’t sufficient colour – made in 2002, 2014 and 2015.  Côtes du Rhône Blanc: Made in very limited volumes, this white is 100% Grenache Blanc – a floral, textural wine that is worth seeking out.  Côtes du Rhône Blanc Grande Réserve: Only made in certain vintages, this is not a declassified bottling (like its red sibling), but a special bottling of the property’s best Clairette and Grenache Blanc. The 50% Grenache Blanc, 50% Clairette wine was produced in 2003, 2014 and 2015.  The Domaine des Tours label is all sourced from Ch. des Tours however is a slightly separate project, generally offering more accessible wines, almost all labelled as IGP or Vin de Pays. There are four wines under the label:  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Rouge: This is a deeply expressive field blend of Grenache, Counoise, Syrah, Cinsault, Merlot and a host of other varieties.  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Merlot: This 100% Merlot comes from the richest, clay soils on the property, producing amore opulent and exuberant wine.  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Merlot-Syrah: A blend of Merlot and Syrah, which shifts according to the vintage, is a concentrated wine that combines the generosity of Merlot with the spice of Syrah.  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Clairette: This 100% Clairette is pure and fresh, driven by minerality.  Under its own label is Les Tours Grenache Blanc – a rich, ripe and generous 100% Grenache Blanc full of stone fruit, bottled under the Vaucluse appellation. The last wine from Ch. des Tours is the Parisy rosé, a dry, delicate Grenache/Cinsault Vin de Table designed for everyday drinking. The labels themselves don’t detail the vintage, with this information only visible on the cardboard case.  Which Reynaud wines are made where? Ch. Rayas, Pignan, Ch. de Fonsalette and Pialade are all made at Rayas Ch. des Tours, Domaine des Tours, Les Tours Grenache Blanc and Parisy are all made at Ch. des Tours  Explore all current listings of the Reynaud wines or read more Editorial 

Few wines have the cult status of Rayas – a wine that stands alone in Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Here, we offer an essential guide to the wines crafted by the Reynaud family in the Rhône – Rayas, of course, but also those of Ch. de Fonsalette and Ch. des Tours 

Everything you need to know about the wines made by Emmanuel Reynaud – Rayas, Pignan, Chateau de Fonsalette, Chateau and Domaine des Tours, and Parisy  

Guide to Rayas, Fonsalette and Des Tours – the Reynaud wines

Everything you need to know about Rayas

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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.

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