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

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

In March this year, Opus One announced that they’d hired Meghan Zobeck as Director of Winemaking. It’s the first step in the transition as longtime winemaker Michael Silacci looks to step away from the business over the next five years. Silacci has been at Opus since 2001 and is a bonafide legend in the valley today – finding a suitable successor is no small task.  Zobeck wasn’t necessarily the obvious choice. She’s risen rapidly through the ranks of Napa’s winemaking elite – but only moved into the world of wine in 2012. That move was a leap of faith for Zobeck – an unlikely one for someone immersed in the world of NFL.  Zobeck grew up in Greeley, Colorado – “a cowtown” in her words, but one that happened to be where the Denver Broncos held their training camps each year. Throughout high school, she spent her summers working for the team – as many locals did. She went off to college (then pre-med), but kept working for the Broncos, moving to full-time while she studied for her MCATs.  In her senior year of college, she did an internship with the team, working with the scouts and sitting in the “war room” on draft day. “I loved the action, the fast pace of it,” she says. At around the same time, she realised that medicine wasn’t for her – instead she took a role negotiating player contracts for the Broncos, becoming one of only a handful of women in the job, and loved it.   It was a weekend trip to Los Olivos in the Santa Ynez Valley that sparked her interest in wine and – more specifically – winemaking. Back home, she found an ad in a local magazine for a homebrew shop – offering the chance to buy grapes during harvest. Soon she was experimenting, fermenting batches of wine in her basement and having bottling parties with friends. “I just saw how it really brought people together,” she says. She travelled to more wine regions and fell for the way wine combined science, creativity, history and community. The NFL had served her well, but it was time to take that leap and leave the Broncos behind.  She did her first vintage at Clos Apalta in 2012, and didn’t look back – doing harvests in Piedmont, Bordeaux and the Barossa, before zoning in on Napa – first at Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars and Screaming Eagle, then taking a job with star consultant Philippe Melka. Most recently, Zobeck was winemaker at Burgess Cellars – where she had free rein to shape the wines, from the vineyard through to the winery.  Zobeck first met Michael Silacci at Premiere Napa Valley – her first showing barrel samples from Burgess. Silacci came over to taste and then – in a clear display of approval – kept sending others her way. Zobeck was focusing on a fresher style of wine, a return to the Burgess of yesteryear, but was also working towards a regenerative approach in the vineyard – and soon discovered that the Opus One team was doing similar experiments. She and Kimberlee Marinelli – Assistant Winemaker & Viticulturist at Opus One – connected and started discussing everything from pollinators to native ferments. Zobeck was struck by the clear lack of complacency from a property that had no need to prove itself further. Little did she know that Silacci was observing what she was doing with particular interest – and decided she could be the heir to his throne.  “It’s a job you never, in a million years, think is going to become available,” says Zobeck of the moment she was approached about becoming Opus One’s Director of Winemaking. There was no way she was turning down such an opportunity – especially not when she would have the chance to work with Silacci for several years.  Zobeck will take on Silacci’s legacy at Opus One – an estate that has been constantly evolving during his tenure. Organic farming has been the norm at Opus for over two decades, although they only sought certification in 2021. For over a decade, Silacci trialled biodynamics but found the vines became too vigorous. He abandoned the approach before launching into regenerative farming from 2022. The estate now works with permanent cover crop between the vines, helping lower temperatures in the canopies, retain water in the soils and lengthen the ripening period, without increasing sugar levels. Silacci has been experimenting with dry farming since 2007 and reducing irrigation across the estate, although it remains essential for now. The team hopes, however, to be able to dry-farm a new site in Oakville once the vines are established. This work is all reflected in the wines being produced today.  “Opus One is not the stereotypical Napa of the early 2000s,” Zobeck emphasises. “It’s a fresh style, and to keep that we have to farm differently.” Silacci is famous for saying he doesn’t want his footprints in the vineyard or fingerprints on the glass, but Zobeck notes how you can see his influence on Opus One over the years, especially from 2004. From 2019, however, she feels the wine has evolved further – with greater transparency of the site. The 2023 has just been bottled at a modest 13.5% alcohol – indicative of the estate’s current approach, one that she intends to continue.  Silacci plans to stay for at least three years, working alongside Zobeck as Chief Winemaker. A transition period of this length is testament to Opus One’s long-term view – looking not just at the next vintage, but the next decade and beyond. Zobeck’s excitement for the role is clear – as well as her admiration for the existing team. As in the NFL, a good captain is key, but it takes more than one player to win a game – and Zobeck completes an already impressive line-up. It’s one hell of a hand-off.  The 2022 vintage of Opus One is released on 1st September 2025. Browse all current listings of Opus One or read more about California 

Originally a joint venture between Robert Mondavi and Ch. Mouton Rothschild, Opus One is one of Napa’s most famous estates – and it now has a new Director of Winemaking. We sat down with Meghan Zobeck to find out more about the ex-NFL powerhouse taking over from Michael Silacci

Meeting the new woman at the helm of Napa’s Opus One – Meghan Zobeck, who is taking over from Michael Silacci to make some of the valley’s most famous wines 

Opus One’s new Director of Winemaking: Meghan Zobeck 

Draft pick: Opus One’s Meghan Zobeck  

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

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

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

Bordeaux, Burgundy wines and building the hype

Bordeaux, Burgundy and building the hype

Some of Nicolas Champagneux’s earliest memories are of life in the vines – of the hubbub of harvest with his grandparents. It’s not the hard work that he recalls, it’s “des bons moments de famille” he tells me – the convivial spirit that infused the air. He grew up in the heart of Côte-Rôtie, spending weekends and holidays in his family’s vineyard – a swathe of Les Grandes Places, a prized site in the commune of Verenay, where his great-grandfather planted vines at the start of the 20th century.  Les Grandes Places is an extraordinary site – with the most famous producer arguably Jean-Michel Gérin. In the north of the Côte Brune, in a southwest-facing amphitheatre, this steep site has crumbly mica schist soils, which allow the vines’ roots to drive deep into the bedrock. It’s home to some very old vines – such as the centenarian plantings that Champagneux farms – and produces wines that are beautifully elegant yet with dark, fleshy power. Champagneux has almost two hectares here, having the largest holdings. Nicolas’s uncle André took over running the vineyard after his grandparents, while his father Gérard went to work in a factory. There wasn’t enough money for both brothers to join the family business back then, with Côte-Rôtie not nearly as sought-after as it is today. Other than a couple of barrels for personal consumption, the family didn’t make wine, farming the site and selling almost all the fruit to Guigal, one of the Northern Rhône’s most famous names.  Indeed, beyond the family vineyard, Nicolas spent a lot of time at Guigal – after his father Gérard left life on the factory floor to head up their viticulture team. From 16, Nicolas would work there in his holidays to earn some money. When Champagneux turned 18, he needed to find a job: he was determined not to work in an office and loved being outside, so he ended up becoming a high-wire electrician – working with huge currents of 20,000 volts. “You were never in the same place, each day was different, each task was different – so there was no monotony,” he says. He often finished his day early, and – a farmer born and bred, unaccustomed to the concept of relaxing – would go help in the family vineyard.  When his uncle passed away, there was no one else to take over the domaine – so he stepped up to the plate, keen to ensure his family’s heritage was preserved. He decided to start keeping the fruit and making wine under the family name, wanting to see the year’s efforts captured. He knew how to work the vines but had never dreamt of being a winemaker – but, never one to be put off by a challenge, he learnt on the job. That was 2014, and the wines have rapidly earned him a reputation in the region. The family cellar had the essentials, but the first few vintages were made with the bare minimum – with a new cellar built in 2016 (Yves Cuilleron advised on the project).  Almost a decade after he left the world of pylons, transformers and conductors behind, life might follow an annual cycle, but it’s as un-monotonous as it was before. Nicolas works as a one-man band and values the independence that brings – managing his own time and being his own boss. “There is still a lot to do and each year is different,” he tells me. He hopes his son will join him at some point – he was born in 2009, and his uncle put away a stash of wine from the vintage, some of which is set to be released for its 20th anniversary in 2029.   Climate change is at the forefront of his mind, with harvests now early September and even August versus October under his uncle. Where they used to struggle to get 13% potential alcohol, his wines often sit at 14-14.5%. He’s now working with grass cover, deleafing less and using a little whole bunch in warmer years to preserve freshness in the wines. Otherwise, little has changed in the decade since he started – he continues to work as simply as possible, looking to translate the vines he grew up amongst into wine. And that’s just what he does: the wines are elegant expressions of Les Grandes Places, perfumed and suave, with a fine grip of tannins and an underlying savoury salinity, ageing beautifully – as a mini-vertical of the 2015, 2016 and 2017 vintages showed recently.   The Nicolas Champagneux wines  From his four hectares of vines, Nicolas Champagneux makes three wines: an IGP Vin de Pays des Collines Rhodaniennes La Rémise and two Côte-Rôties, Les Grandes Places and La Dédicace, all made with 100% Syrah.   La Dédicace comes from the younger vines in Les Grandes Places, with a “mere” 40-60 years behind them on average. Around 6,000-7,000 bottles are produced of this “baby” Grandes Places.   Les Grandes Places comes from his oldest vines, averaging a little over 100 years in age, with some planted in 1910. Just 1,500 bottles or so are made of this wine each vintage.  Both the Côte-Rôtie wines are made in exactly the same way, mostly de-stemmed with  little whole-bunch added in warmer vintages and fermented with indigenous yeast, reaching a maximum 28-30°C, and spending around three weeks on skins. The wine then spends 20-24 months in old oak before bottling.  Nicolas Champagneux Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: a vertical tasting  2022 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: This is packed with spicy intensity – clove and cardamom along with a hit of Szechuan pepper. The palate offers a juicy lushness, layered with deep, concentrated dark cherry fruit and a twist of black tapenade, with mouth-coating tannins and all refreshed by a line of vibrant acidity. A baby now, best approached from 2030.  2021 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: A really impressive 2021, poised and powerful, Champagneux’s Les Grandes Places needs air but gradually reveals pepper spice and more delicate, lifted, violet florals. There is, however, power and weight to the palate – more than you might expect from the pretty nose, with a savoury firmness, supple but structured tannins and juicy acidity. It’s dark and brooding, gothic with its haunting florals, with a long, mouth-watering, saline finish. Approach from 2027.  2017 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: The 2017 Les Grandes Places combines delicate florals with a bloody, iron note on the nose, leading on to a palate layered with bramble fruit. The tannins are round, supple and soft-textured, with tangy acidity that cuts through the concentrated fruit, while the long finish is scented with white pepper and parma violets.  2016 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: This 2016 is in a gorgeous place. Heady incense combines with sweet cherry fruit and a touch of smoke on the nose, leading onto a palate that you sink into – the wine soft and supple, with waves of sweet fruit, yet all cut by an intensely saline, savoury edge. Fresh and flawlessly balanced, decant and enjoy now and over a good decade to come.   2015 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: The sternest of the trio of 2015, 2016 and 2017, this is a powerful and impressive vintage of Les Grandes Places – with all the best characteristics of the year. The wine is dark and broody, compact and amazingly primary still, with black cherry fruit and blackberry filling the nose. On the palate, however, it has amazing purity and intensity, with a crystalline quality to the fruit, plenty of acidity to complement its concentration and the firm tannins. Smoky, saline notes linger in the mouth, with a dusting of petal florals on the finish. Decant if opening now, but this will be even better if you can resist for another few years.  Explore all current listings from Nicolas Champagneux including a range of back-vintages or read more about the Rhône 

It’s almost a decade since Nicolas Champagneux took over his family’s vines and started making wine under his own name – the first generation to do so. We sat down with the vigneron to find out more about his heritage and the journey so far 

How the talented young vigneron in Cote-Rotie has taken his family’s legacy and created a new domaine that is one of the Rhone’s most exciting 

Nicolas Champagneux – building on his birthright 

Nicolas Champagneux: building on his birthright 

For Marelise Niemann, the lure of wine is the very thing that might frustrate less intuitive winegrowers. “You’re never in control: you’re always humbled,” she says – by the weather, by the baboons that eat your grapes, by nature. Humbling though it may be, Niemann has made Grenache her mission – crafting South Africa’s finest, most elegant expressions of this grape under her Momento label.  It's perhaps not surprising, given the style of her wines, that it was a vintage in Burgundy that provided her lightbulb moment. At the time, in the late noughties, South Africa was still focused on producing big wines: bold reds, extracted and heavily oaked, were seen as the best. Parker’s influence was lingering, and South Africa was still bouncing back from apartheid and the stifling monopoly of the KWV. But a stint working with Pinot Noir made Niemann realise the surprising and sometimes incongruous power of delicacy – in short, that bigger wasn’t always better.  And she was one of many on a similar journey. South Africa’s New Wave movement was gathering pace. Led by the likes of Eben Sadie, Adi Badenhorst, and Chris and Andrea Mullineux, these producers were crafting fresh and fine wines, reinventing South Africa’s vinous identity. What started in the Swartland soon swept across the nation, and Niemann was part of this groundswell.  It was farming that first drew her to wine, having spent time as a child on her grandparents’ farm in Stanford, a small village in the Overberg, getting up at the crack of dawn to help milk the cows or do whatever else needed doing. Although her parents both left agriculture behind, she wanted to work the land. Growing up in Elgin, dominated by apples but with a nascent grape industry, she decided to try viticulture. Late nights with many bottles at university in Stellenbosch convinced her that growing grapes wasn’t enough, and soon her degree had broadened to include winemaking.  After travelling the world and doing vintages in the Rhône and California, she got a job working alongside Sebastian Beaumont – who had just taken over his family’s estate, Beaumont Family Wines. It was here, she explains, that she could unlearn everything in the books. While there, she continued to travel and do vintages in the Northern Hemisphere – including the aforementioned stint in Burgundy.   Although Pinot Noir was her inspiration, it was the freshness and vibrancy that she was chasing, rather than Pinot itself – well aware that much of South Africa is simply too hot and dry for the variety. A trip to Terroir al Limit (the Priorat project created by Dominik Huber and Eben Sadie in 2001) in 2010 was pivotal. She fell instantly for the region’s beautiful old Garnacha vines, and the lighter styles that Huber and Sadie were producing.   She immediately returned and sought out a parcel of Grenache in the Western Cape. She bought two tonnes from a 50-year-old vineyard in the Swartland with Donovan Rall (of Rall Wines); he picked the fruit and trucked it down to Stellenbosch, where they stashed it illicitly in a university cold room overnight courtesy of a friend, and she then drove it down to Beaumont. The winemaking was minimal, in part because she was busy making the Beaumont wines, and she didn’t have any equipment – but also because it was what the vineyard gave her, leaning towards a lighter, more fragrant style. The first vintage of Momento Grenache was born. That was 2011, and before she’d even decided on a name or considered designing a label for the bottled product, it was chosen for the famous Young Guns tasting. (Her husband – an artist – sketched the vine you’ll see on the label today, with faces in the trunk, because for Niemann wine isn’t just the geeky stuff, but the people – both those who make it and those who enjoy it.)  Fast forward a decade, and Momento has earned quite the reputation. Niemann was named Tim Atkin MW’s Young Winemaker of the Year in his 2023 South Africa Report, and critics gush over the wines from this “Grenache-whisperer” (as dubbed by Malu Lambert, Decanter).  Although Niemann makes a Chenin Blanc/Verdelho blend and Tinta Barocca, Grenache is very much the core of the Momento range – with Grenache Gris and Blanc, as well as several different bottlings of Grenache Noir. It’s unsurprising given the beautifully fragrant, fine and fresh style of her wines that those she looks to for inspiration are Rayas (of course), but also those of Sierra de Gredos (such as Comando G), and finer, new-wave examples from Australia too – like Yangarra or S.C. Pannell. With the 2022 vintage, she introduced three additional single-site expressions of Grenache Noir, adding a bottling from Botrivier shale, Piekenierskloof sandstone and Riebeekberg schist, alongside her Paardeberg wine (previously labelled as Swartland, or Western Cape, all on granite). The idea is to show what Grenache can do in South Africa, speaking of their different soils, yet all retaining her trademark vibrancy and delicacy.  For Niemann, Grenache and the other varieties she works with aren’t an arbitrary choice, but those that are sustainable in the South African climate. Almost all the vineyards she works with are dry-farmed (with one that she’s weaning off its water-dependency). She points to the drought of 2015-2018 with its threat of Day Zero, when no one could irrigate their vines: she recalls how the Cabernet and Merlot in a neighbouring vineyard gave up, offering little to no crop, but it wasn’t the case with her Grenache, which “just carried on with life”. As she says, “There will be another day zero in South Africa. It will become hotter and drier. We need to farm varietals that don’t need to be irrigated.” Grapes like Grenache, Chenin and Verdelho, alongside Cinsault and Carignan are – for her – the answer. “It’s what our climate wants us to plant,” she says.  One thing’s for sure: if this is the future for South African wine, it’s incredibly exciting. Forget high-alcohol, soupy sweet Grenache; Niemann’s wines are fine-boned, fresh, textured, perfumed and pure – wines that speak of place. Allocations of her single-site bottlings vanished almost instantly on release – and I’m in no doubt that her star will only continue to rise. Snap these wines up while you can.  Explore the Momento range or read more about South Africa 

Named Tim Atkin MW’s Young Winemaker of the Year in 2023, Marelise Niemann is crafting some of South Africa’s most exciting wines. We sat down with the Momento winemaker to talk about her journey into wine, falling head-over-heels for Burgundy and why Grenache is the future for the Western Cape

Sitting down with Marlise Niemann, the winemaker behind Momento wines in Bot River, South Africa – Tim Atkin’s Young Winemaker of the Year 2023

Redefining Grenache: Marelise Niemann’s Momento wines

Redefining Grenache: Momento 

At Lafite Rothschild, Antoine Granger said that while vintages like 1986 (“rich but good”), 1990 and 1996 are drinking well, the 2000 is “beautiful” and the 2005 “brilliant”.  It might be young, but – if you can decant it 12 hours in advance – the more modest 2022 Duhart-Milon is also showing well, he noted. Joséphine Duffau-Lagarrosse also pointed to 2000 (a “fabulous” vintage) at Beauséjour, while she finds that some 2004s are superb. She also recently had tasted 2005 Latour and said it was “magnifique”.   For Pierre-Olivier Clouet at Cheval Blanc, 2004 is a vintage he loves. The 1998 is drinking very well, he noted, but the 2009 and 2012 are brilliant – having never shut down, something echoed elsewhere. He’s just starting to broach the 2007, a wine which he says was “a teenager” for a long time but is now starting to reveal its potential. The 2012 is also, for him, a new sort of 2011.  Palmer’s Sébastien Menut was another to point to 2007 – saying how well it was drinking, and a recent bottle of 2014 Trotanoy was a real standout bottle for him.   For Juliette Couderc, the 2009 and 2012 Evangile are still winners – although there isn’t that much left around, sadly; she likes the 2008 too, but feels the 2004 and 2005 aren’t yet ready, while vintages like 2016, 2018, 2019 need more time before broaching. Indeed, at Vieux Château Certan, Alexandre Thienpont pointed to 2009 (a vintage he feels is just starting to open up – reenforced by a bottle our team enjoyed in Bordeaux during primeurs) and the 2012 is drinking well.  David Suire at Ch. Laroque is happy to uncork almost any vintage between 1995 and 2020, he told us (anything older requires a special occasion, he joked), but highlighted the 2014 as a wine that is starting to open up, and – although still young – the 2019 is a very fine wine that is brilliant, it just needs decanting. And he’s not the only one to be enjoying the 2019s: Troplong Mondot’s Ferréol du Fou has been drinking the 2019 a lot, decanting it for an hour or two, while he was also particularly enthusiastic about the 2017s – wines which he feels are drinking well from across Bordeaux.  At La Conseillante, Marielle Cazaux echoed this – the 2019 is pure pleasure, for her, a “silky, delicious fruit bomb” at this youthful stage, and the 2017 is similarly rewarding. Looking back a bit further, she’s still waiting for the 2015 to emerge, but loves the 2012 – which combines tertiary complexity with power.   Shop the wines or read more about the region 

All eyes may currently be on the nascent 2024s, but in amongst primeurs, we took a moment to talk to Bordeaux’s top producers about the vintages to drink now. Here’s what those in the know are pulling the cork on

As the 2024 vintage is released en primeur, we asked Bordeaux’s top produces which vintages are best to drink now: here’s what they said 

Bordeaux: the best vintages and wines to drink now 

Bordeaux vintages to drink now  

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Your order request will be cancelled. Are you sure you want to proceed?

Due to the quantity requested for collection, there may be a delay in meeting your requested collection date.

Due to the quantity requested for collection, it is not possible to define a collection date at this stage. Our team will liaise with the warehouse and contact you directly to confirm a suitable pick-up date.

This item has been listed by a collector and is available for storage or immediate delivery

For orders with a high value, we recommend shipping with a third party carrier. Items shipped with third parties will remain in banded OWCs.

Due to the quantity requested, you won’t be able to select a collection date. Please submit your request, and we will liaise with our warehouse and confirm the collection date with you directly.

Due to the quantity requested, you won’t be able to continue the purchase. Please select third party, or change the quantity (maximum 48 is allowed).

Due to the quantity requested, you won’t be able to select a shipping date at checkout. Please submit your request, and we will liaise with our warehouse and confirm the delivery date with you directly.

For up to 499 bottles in storage, the rate is 39¢/bottle per month or a $50 minimum monthly charge (this covers up to 142 bottles). For over 500 bottles, the storage rate is 35¢/bottle per month.

Storage is charged at HKD 40 per 12-bottle case per month. A minimum monthly storage fee of HKD 80 applies, covering up to 24 bottles.

Standard storage rate

By selecting third-party shipping, you will take full responsibility for all aspects of legal compliance and authorize Vinfolio to transfer the items to the party specified in your instructions. Items shipped via third parties will remain in their original packaging.

Collection times are between 8:30am - 12pm & 1:30pm - 4:30pm, Monday to Friday. Wines at Will Call, that are not picked up within 10 business days, will be transferred to storage and subject to a $1.50 per bottle stocking fee.

Items to be sourced and shipped to our state-of-the-art fine wine storage facility for the best possible safe-keeping where you can arrange collection from our warehouse address in Napa.

Will Call (Napa)

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We're in the final stages of upgrading to our brand-new trading platform. As part of this transition, we're currently migrating all customer-owned inventory to ensure a smooth and seamless experience.

Our new and improved platform will be ready for you on Friday, April 4.

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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.

groups every action by type - Purchase, Sale, Delivery, and Inbound Transfer - so it's clear at a glance what happened to each item.

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?

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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.

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