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  

Lebanon's lost legacy: viticulture Despite being more southerly than the great wine regions of Europe, the Beka'a’s elevated altitude on average around 1000m above sea level – means that it’s a full 10ºC cooler than Lebanon’s Mediterranean coastline. The climate is positively European with wet, often snowy winters and warm, dry summers. It’s very well suited to winemaking, a local craft that dates back millennia. Lebanon itself is geographically situated in the cradle of civilisation. It was here, even before
the Greeks and Romans emerged as dominant cultures in the Mediterranean, and the Canaanites (later known as Phoenicians), peace-loving traders from the Levant, established some of the earliest known well-organised cities: the trading ports of Byblos, Sidon and Tyre. Phoenician culture was at its peak between 1500 and 300BC – a period that saw them explore and dominate the Mediterranean, developing trade routes, setting up outposts and cities as far afield as North Africa (Carthage, now Tunis, Tunisia) and the Iberian peninsula (Gadir, now Cádiz, Spain). The word ‘Phoenician’ directly connects the people of the Levant with both an impressive entrepreneurial spirit and an awe-inspiring work ethic. More precisely, it is an exonym originating from ancient Greek that describes Tyrian purple. This highly prized dye was a major export of the Canaanite port towns, in particular Tyre, hence the name. The labour-intensive production of the colour involved collecting the mucous secretions of thousands of sea snails. 12,000 snails yield a paltry 1.5 grams of dye – which is why it was so highly prized and the clothes it coloured were reserved for royalty. Tyrian purple was not the only ingenious product that the Phoenicians exported. Their legacy also includes the invention of glass-blowing techniques, and the development of the very first abstract (non-figurative) writing system (from which the Greek alphabet was derived) is credited to the Phoenicians and their Canaanite ancestors. It was almost certainly developed primarily to keep records of sales and ultimately function as an essential accounting tool. We also have the Phoenicians to thank for the word ‘Europe’ – which comes from their word ‘Erob’ meaning ‘where the sun sets’. While it is thought that the world’s first-ever wine was made over 8,000 years ago in the Caucasus Mountains between the Black and Caspian Seas to the northeast of the Levant, it was the Phoenicians that produced, exported and made famous the ‘fragrant wines of Lebanon’ mentioned in the Bible’s old testament (Hosea 14:7). And with their grip on Mediterranean trade, they marketed it and exported it along with, crucially, the knowledge of how to make it. The agricultural treatises of Carthaginian writer Mago, (thought to be writing around 350 BC) were among the most important early texts in the history of wine to record ancient knowledge of winemaking and viticulture. It’s important to remember the function of wine in society in Phoenician times. It wasn’t just a drink. It was, rather like the Tyrian purple dye, complicated and labour intensive to make, exceptionally highly prized and valuable and not just because of how it tasted – but because of its effect and function.  Biomolecular Archaeologist Professor Pat McGovern at the University of Pennsylvania Museum is a specialist in fermented beverages and his research reveals more about wine in Phoenician life. “The wines of ancient Lebanon and Syria,” he says, “were much more than a technological marvel. They were the social lubricants to break down barriers, stimulate music and the arts and bring people together. They were the supreme religious symbol for prosperity and well-being, in life as well as death. And they were the medicines for dissolving and dispensing botanicals, to rest the weary, relieve pain and cure disease.” Taking their wine to the Pharoahs of Egypt and further west to Portugal to trade it for local silver and tin, Phoenician winemaking equipment has been discovered in Valepeñas in Spain. As Phoenicians established Cádiz (Spain) as early as 1100BC, it is most likely that Phoenician wines – not Roman wines – were the forerunners to sherry. Perhaps the most enduring legacy of these seafaring traders was, in fact, the propagation of ancestral grapevines from the Levant that ampelographers believe gave rise to several modern grape varieties in Europe. According to research published by the University of California-Davis on the Integrated Viticulture Online Database, the French wine grape Mourvèrde may have first been introduced to the wine region of Catalonia around 500BC. By 64BC, Seleucid Syria and Lebanon had been annexed to the Roman empire by emperor Pompey. Peace and prosperity followed as the people of Byblos, Tyre and Sidon were granted Roman citizenship. Trade boomed and new wealth generated from exports of cedar, pottery, jewellery, perfume, purple dye and wine to Rome, enabled an era of widespread construction and urban development. One of the building projects the Romans invested in at this time was the enhancement of the already millennia-old temple complex at Baalbek in the Beka'a Valley. At a site which the Greeks and the Romans referred to as Heliopolis 'the City of the Sun' (where Phoenician god Ba’al had once been worshipped), the Romans rebuilt and reconsecrated the temples to their gods Jupiter, Venus and Bacchus, gods of wine, fertility, ritual madness, festivity, dance and theatre. The 700-acre site remains, to this day, the largest and best preserved Roman temple complex anywhere in the Empire. How the ancients moved the 800-ton quarried stone blocks that form the base of the temples still baffles the world’s brightest engineers. The temple to Bacchus at Baalbek is a monument to the importance of wine in the region, and the site became a symbol of Lebanon itself in the 1960s, thanks to the cultural impact of the Baalbek International Festival. Established in the mid-1950s, the festival brought celebration, theatre, music and dance back to the site through performances by international music stars and, crucially, nurtured and celebrated home-grown talent, perhaps most famously Fairouz and the Rahbani Brothers who became huge stars in Lebanon and right across the Arab world. Lebanon’s potent winemaking heritage is not lost on the makers of Chateau Musar. Far from it. As well as its vineyards in the Beka'a, the winery also grows vines near Byblos and the Hochar family’s charismatic winemaker, Tarek Sakr, is as passionate about the history of the land as he is about the grapes he grows there. “Byblos has been known since Phoenician times as an exporter of cedar wood and wine,” he enthuses. “Vines were cultivated in the hills surrounding Byblos, fermented in stone vats dug into the landscape. Then, the wine was put in Canaanite jars (these were the predecessor of the Greek amphora – yes, Phoenicians invented these too), sealed with resin to stop oxidation, and taken to the harbour for export.” Tarek also tells of a recently discovered archaeological site in the village of Edde a few kilometres from Byblos. “The site suggests that most of the hills near the city have been growing vines for thousands of years. This makes sense as the place where our nearby vineyards are located, on a hill overlooking Byblos, is called Vines Passage. You can smell the history of winemaking here. This is undoubtedly the birthplace of viticulture.” While he has spent many years planting and tending to its vines as an integral part of the Musar winemaking process, Tarek’s knowledge of and connection to the land and its ancient traditions run even deeper than his many years of experience. The result of a DNA test found that he is genuinely of Phoenician descent. It would seem that when it comes to Lebanon’s unrivalled contribution to the world of wine, we still have much to thank the Phoenicians for. Explore more Editorial 

Most of Chateau Musar’s vines are grown in Lebanon’s Beka'a Valley, a fertile plain about 30km east of Beirut, situated between Mount Lebanon on the west and the Anti-Lebanon mountains to the east. 

Most of Chateau Musar’s vines are grown in Lebanon’s Beka'a Valley. We look into the viticultural legacy of the region and the impact of the cultural heritage

The wines of Lebanon

The wines of Lebanon: a phoenician phenomenon

We talk to Europe’s leading glassmakers from the 250-year-old Austrian family-run firm Riedel to the young dynamo behind Grassl, which launched in 2018. We also speak
to Jancis Robinson MW on her recent collaboration with British designer and master craftsman Richard Brendon, who explains that traditional glass types have long been in desperate need of modernisation. Legend has it that Marie Antoinette’s breasts provided the outline for the creation of the
coupe, the shallow-bowled champagne glass that graced the lips of Hollywood’s starlets during the Golden Age, and enjoyed regular appearances in episodes of Mad Men. When it comes to wine glasses, aesthetics has historically taken precedence but functionality has risen to the top of the priority list.  Wine has long suffered an injustice at its final destination whether it’s champagne, sherry or claret. Designer Richard Brendon recalls his first meeting with Master of Wine, Jancis Robinson. “She said she’d never understood why white wine was put in a smaller glass than red wine and described this as discrimination. Champagne producers hate flutes because they don’t allow for any of the aromatics to get out of the wine, likewise Sherry and Port producers don’t like the small glasses that their wine traditionally gets put in.” There are a growing number of glass companies aiming to redress the balance. And, in the
same way as every winemaker in Burgundy has his or her own particular way of producing the perfect Pinot Noir, every glassmaker has a view to crafting the most suitable vessel in which to pour it.  Austrian-based Riedel has gone down the route of a glass particular to a variety from Chardonnay to Zinfandel while Brendon has followed Robinson’s one-size-fits-all advice.  “Jancis was entirely confident that we could create one glass that worked perfectly for every style of wine,” says Brendon” but we also needed two decanters to ensure we have a collection that works for every wine.”  With 40 years of experience tasting wine, Robinson set out the specific parameters for her ideal glass. “The widest part of the glass should be exactly 125ml or one-sixth of a bottle. This would mean when a standard pour is served, the wine will have maximum surface area, allowing for all of the aroma to get out of the wine,” he says.  “Jancis wanted a nice tall bowl to allow for the wine to be swirled in the glass to get more of the aromas out of the wine, and that the opening of the glass should be as small as possible to trap the aromas of the wine, but still big enough for even the largest of noses! The thickness of the rim was of utmost importance, she wanted it to be gossamer-thin so that you hardly notice the glass when taking a sip. “ Gossamer-thin is an apt descriptor for Zalto’s glassware, particularly the elegant, fine stems
that induce a certain nervousness in the holder. It’s a far cry from the heavy cut-crystal glasses that adorned the dining tables of previous generations. Daniel Primack of Zalto’s UK importer WineRackd admits such delicacy can be a concern initially but “with perfect balance in the hand and such fine construction, you may worry that you’re going to break them just by drinking from them but fear not,” he says.  “They are mouth-blown and cooled very slowly making them incomparably tough for something so fine. Zalto’s own recipe of the three main ingredients for creating crystal, silica, soda (sodium carbonate) or potash (potassium carbonate) and lime (calcium oxide) also contribute to the clarity and durability. They are blown differently to other Austrian glasses, with the bowl and stem formed as one piece, then the foot attached. A more usual arrangement is for the stem to be glued to the bowl. Remember the attachment point is a weak point” Staying in Austria, Riedel is perhaps the country’s most famous glassmaker in the wine world, producing an impressive 60 million glasses annually at its three factories. The 250-year-old company now uses machines to make 95% of its glasses. The company’s UK managing director Stephen McGraw says “we can produce machine-made glasses which are almost indistinguishable from handmade glasses.  However handmade glasses are still very important to us, as we preserve a skill which is still recognisable to the techniques used in Roman times. In terms of machine-made versus handmade? The glasses will all perform equally well, from a sensory point of view.” He adds that its unusually shaped decanters are a different matter: master glassmakers, who tend to have around 15 years of experience to be at the top of their game, can only make these intricate objects.  A much more recent addition to the glass scene is Swiss brand Grassl, which launched in
2018.  Founder and wine collector Alexander Mackh, who is just 26 years old, explains its conception. “I launched Grassl Glass because I didn’t enjoy the proportions of the glassware on the market. Finer, deeper, less-extracted, less-oaked wine [styles] require different glassware, so I decided to create my own.”  Prototypes in hand, Mackh tested the glasses on some of Burgundy's top winemakers as well as heading to the finest names in Bordeaux including Châteaux Ausone and Palmer. Tweaks were made accordingly and now the Slovakian-blown artisanal glasses can be found as far afield as South Korea and Australia.  
What is the magic number?  While Brendon and Robinson have created just one wine glass, Grassl’s magic number is four. The designs include Liberté, which is ideal for medium to low acidity white wines, which are oak aged and 1855, a glass for reds high in tannin, richness and alcohol. If push comes to shove, Mackh says “If you wanted just one glass that does the job, it would be the Liberté as an objective tool for tasting." Riedel is known for its varietal-specific glasses and there are myriad options but there has to
be genuine rationale behind a new style. “A glass designed for a specific wine must show that wine better than any other, non-specific glass would,” says McGraw before explaining the ongoing process that shapes its bowls. “We design and test our glasses together with winemakers. Through a series of tasting workshops, we fine-tune and hone the shapes of our glasses until the winemaker tells us that the glass is showing his wine correctly. Further, after a glass is designed and in production, we do continuous testing and tasting workshops to ensure that the glass is as relevant still as the day it was first designed.” However, there’s no need to be rigid in what you pour in the grape-specific glasses. Riedel has a glass, for example, that suits rosé Champagne, Nebbiolo and New World Pinot
Noir. You certainly won’t go to wine hell if you also use it for a glass of Chardonnay. Primack agrees: “The names are simply a guide to identifying the bowl. They were named this way as 15 years ago, it was the convention to use a wine name. Today, Zalto stress it is not a prescription for the contents. For example, many people appreciate certain styles of White Burgundy in the Bordeaux bowl. This has been proven time and time again”.  Function has now won over form in the wine glass arena but that’s not at the expense of beauty. The bedazzling array of aesthetically appealing wine glasses provides a tactile experience for both your hands and lips. Wine is delivered to our senses as the winemaker intended and that means it has never tasted so good. Explore more Editorial 

Fine wine demands the perfect glass to provide the ultimate sensory experience but the resting place of the final pour has long been neglected. But it’s all change.  

Fine wine demands the perfect glass to provide the ultimate sensory experience. We speak to Riedel Europe’s leading glass makers and British craftsmen

Fine wine glasses versus aesthetics

Sitting plum in the middle of the Côte d’Or, the hill of Corton is hard to miss. Its wines, especially the whites, however, are all too often overlooked. We sat down with some of the region’s leading producers to explore the pedigree and potential of this site and its powerful, long-lasting wines

Discover the pedigree and potential of the hill of Corton’s whites – the fine Chardonnay from Corton-Charlemagne, Charlemagne and Corton Blanc 

Exploring Corton-Charlemagne, Charlemagne and Corton Blanc 

Corton-Charlemagne: the Grand Cru of the future?  

I am too disorganised to call myself a collector, but I often find myself thinking about the multiple meanings of collecting. I have a room full of books left unread from one year to the next, whose mute reproach I feel every time I am in their presence. I have half a dozen radios, from Marco Zanuso and Richard Sapper’s folding Brionvega TS502 to a Danish-made Beolit 707 from Bang & Olufsen, with its slide rule tuning device. I have a manual typewriter.  Most of us accumulate such random clutter. These were never possessions that were primarily about being useful – the Brionvega and the Beolit have long since been supplanted by a bluetooth speaker and a smartphone. They represent my membership of the design tribe.  The books carry other layers of meaning. My five years at university are on one shelf. The traces of the eight years I have spent writing a just-completed biography of Boris Iofan – Josef Stalin’s preferred architect – are spelled out in the titles of the books on another shelf. The typewriter was inherited from my father and it serves to remind me of childhood. The closest that I come to having a collection that a serious collector might acknowledge is in my chairs: a Rover chair that Ron Arad salvaged from a car, a Gio Ponti Superlegera, an Eames Lounger, a Harry Bertoia, George Sowden’s Palace chair from the 1983 Memphis collection and a deconstructed armchair designed by Rei Kawakubo. On a larger or smaller scale, humans develop complex relationships with their possessions that can go from the professionalism of full-blown collecting, to the casual significance of a row of junk shop finds on a mantlepiece. They can tell us a lot about ourselves. Marina Warner’s guide to the house in Hampstead, now run as a museum, in which Sigmund Freud spent the last year of his life, offers an arresting insight into the significance that collecting had for him. She describes the ranks of ancient bronze, ceramic and marble figures parading across the desk that Freud brought with him to London from Vienna where he no longer felt safe due to Nazi occupation in 1938. Certainly, they are beautiful, and mostly they are precious. Thanks to their association with Freud, even the few that have been established as 20th-century forgeries will have become valuable. Some are almost 4,000 years old and reflect the religious and political practices of the distant past. Others, such as Freud’s art deco cigar case, come less freighted with history. But as Warner says, “they were also tools of thought, the kitchen utensils of his imagination”.   The batterie de cuisine of psychoanalysis included Egyptian coffin masks from the Roman period, Chinese jade and gold brooches, Roman glass, a 2,500-year-old sphinx, sarcophagus lids, Babylonian cylinder seals and Egyptian heart scarabs, as well as a 19th-century neck rest from New Guinea, modern metal porcupines, and Balinese figures. The pieces in pride of place on his desk, placed in apparently random order, were his special favourites, a tiny fraction of his collection that had become permanent fixtures. From time to time, Freud made space for a few new acquisitions to get a look in. “A collection to which there are no new additions is really dead,” he told his biographer Ernest Jones. After a short interval, most of the new things would be moved into the glass-fronted cabinets positioned around his study, where they were placed in more organised groups than those standing on his desk. Greek sculptures went on a shelf together. A cluster of representations of the Egyptian god Horus were grouped on another.  In Freud’s lifetime, the collection was continually changing. Before his move to London, he toured Vienna’s antiquities dealers almost every week on the look-out for new finds. He was ready to exchange pieces for items he could not afford to buy, and was generous in gifting pieces to friends and pupils he thought would appreciate them. Freud also had no qualms about buying items that came on the market in questionable circumstances, in particular, from the unofficial excavations (sometime after 1906) at a Roman fort in Hungary.   Despite the important part it played in his life, Freud wrote very little about collecting. The nearest that he came to spelling out what drove his interest in fragments of ancient sculpture, was when he compared his own exploration of the unconscious minds of his patients to an archaeological excavation of an ancient city. “The psychoanalyst, like the archaeologist, must uncover layer after layer of the patient’s psyche before coming to the deepest, most valuable treasures.”  Freud was known to share his dining table with choice specimens to act as companions during a meal. “I must always have an object to love”, he confessed to his colleague and rival Carl Jung. When he was writing his book The Interpretation of Dreams in 1895, Freud spent the summer at Schloss Bellevue outside Vienna. He took a selection of what he called “my old grubby gods who take part in the works as paperweights for the manuscripts” with him.  Before Freud left Austria for England in 1938, his desk, his consulting room, and his study at Berggasse 19 were photographed by Edmund Engelman. Engelman’s 150 images helped Freud’s architect son Ernst to transpose the desk and its contents from a dark back room in a Viennese apartment to a sunlit Hampstead villa.  Like most collectors, Freud could never limit himself to a single field. Ronald Lauder the former MoMA chairman, for example, is known for the collection of Viennese modernism that forms the basis for his own museum, the Neue Galerie in New York. He also collects (in depth) in 15 other fields with little apparent connection between them. Lauder is fascinated by the work of the Japanese designer Shiro Kuramata. He has a collection of arms and armour going back to The Crusades, and another of World War Two memorabilia. He owns some of Egon Schiele’s finest works, as well as various 18th-century French artworks. Fellow collector Rolf Fehlbaum (head of Vitra) has one of the largest collections of modern chairs in the world, and gave Frank Gehry his first European commission to design a gallery for it, but he is equally fascinated by toy robots manufactured in Japan since 1937. He calls them tiny kinetic sculptures. Where possible, he acquires their original packaging too. Perhaps the best way to understand the psychology of collecting is to see it as a spectrum. At one end, it is about order and control. In a messy and uncontrollable universe, a collection offers at least a semblance of certainty. A collection of this kind is based on provenance, completeness and authenticity. An over-restored vintage Bugatti is less desirable to a collector than one in original condition.  Every previous owner, every detail of its making forms part of its record. A red Olivetti typewriter designed by Ettore Sottsass that once belonged to David Bowie was sold at Sotheby’s for US$65,000. You can buy one (that hasn’t been owned by Bowie) for US$750, which is still a lot of money for a piece of obsolete technology. Some collectors attempt to make patterns from the things that they acquire or, like jigsaw puzzlers, set out to complete a picture by locating every piece of a set. Some try to document the evolution of a species whether the subject of their interest is biscuit tins or the eggs of a particular type of bird. Some forms of collecting require the active engagement of the collector. Wildflowers need to be picked and dried quickly before they are pressed into a book. Butterfly collectors used macabre methods such as poison jars, or squeezing the thorax, to dispatch their prey without causing so much distress that they risk damaging delicate wings. At the other end of the spectrum, the accumulation of stuff by people who die alone in homes overwhelmed by stacks of ancient newspapers and tins of cat food, is a kind of sickness. It’s a condition that can overwhelm even the most celebrated of artists. In the last 17 years of his life, Andy Warhol filled a succession of cardboard boxes with a seemingly random accumulation of objects: taxi receipts, a vinyl Ramones single signed by Joey Ramone, a piece of an ancient, mummified foot, pastel-coloured corsets and a selection of metal dentures. Every time he had a full box, it was sealed and shipped off to storage in a warehouse in New Jersey. A typical box has 400 objects in it, some have as many as 1,200. Items in them include a piece of Caroline Kennedy’s wedding cake – Warhol seems to have been a regular guest at Kennedy weddings. He showed up 20 minutes after the wedding ceremony for Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger had started, in the company of Grace Jones. He was in black leather, and wearing two wigs; she had on a huge green fur hat.   Warhol’s boxes are a collection of the uncollectable and the uncontrollable, which, thanks to the resources of the Andy Warhol Foundation, has been tamed after six years of work by a dedicated group of archivists and cataloguers. The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh has aestheticised the cardboard boxes. They sit on back-lit shelves in the museum to suggest that this is not a random collection of trash that Warhol never looked at, but, in the view of the museum, is in fact a time-based art piece, comprising at least 500,000 objects that took 30 years to complete. It presents a considerably less impressive sight than British Regency period architect Sir John Soane’s museum. The architect of the Bank of England put as much effort into adapting his Lincoln’s Inn Fields house (and subsequently the two adjoining houses) to display his Hogarth paintings, a sarcophagus and his architectural models, as he did to accumulating the collection itself. The Nobel prize-winning Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s novel, The Museum of Innocence is an eloquent exploration of the hoarding end of the collecting spectrum. What initially appears to be an account of a doomed love affair, quickly reveals itself as an exploration of the meaning of collecting. The story’s main protagonist Kemal starts acquiring things when his relationship with his lover Füsun is going well. When she drops an earring, he finds it and puts it to one side. As Füsun falls out of love with him, Kemal begins an increasingly desperate accumulation of objects that record their relationship. He picks up each of the cigarettes that she smokes. When she has stopped seeing him altogether, Kemal starts hanging around at her parents’ house and stealing pieces of cutlery that she might have used.  What makes Pamuk’s book particularly remarkable is that he acquired a house in Istanbul’s Beyoğlu district that had belonged to a Greek merchant in the Ottoman era, and transformed it into a physical Museum of Innocence. It is, of course, very far from innocent; everything inside it is a lovingly created fiction. The first thing that you see once you get inside, is a wall covered with 4,213 cigarette ends, each of them carefully annotated in Pamuk’s neat handwriting, with imaginary details of the time and place they were smoked. The rest of the house is full of equally carefully fabricated objects from cosmetics to movie posters that reflect Pamuk’s vision of the modernising Turkey of the 1970s. “I think getting attached to objects happens in traumatic times and love is a trauma,” Pamuk once said. “Perhaps when they are in trouble, people hoard things.”  When Pamuk gave me a tour of his museum, he told me about meeting Warhol’s archivist, and expressed his reservations about the significance of the boxes in Pittsburgh. “Hoarding objects reaches the level of collecting only when there is a story that unites them,” he said. But that is a novelist criticising another, less narrative art form. While Freud’s desk in Hampstead was always useable, if overcrowded, the desk in fashion designer Paul Smith’s office in Covent Garden is completely overwhelmed with a snowdrift of collected objects that sweeps over an office chair, down onto the floor, and back up to the shelves that line every wall. There are stacks of books and magazines, cameras and mountains of vintage cycling jerseys. There is an i-Mac computer, a gift from Jony Ive that Smith has never used. Computers aren’t Smith’s thing. In any case, it’s too late now, short of purging half the contents of the room: there is no way to get near it. There are toy tin cars, collections of bottles from Moroccan markets, a pink bicycle and a lot of rabbits. “I once said in an interview that seeing a rabbit brings me luck, and they haven’t stopped pouring in ever since,” explains Smith. Collecting began, as did so many things in Smith’s career, with his early enthusiasm for cycling. Growing up in Nottingham in the 1950s, there was a newsagent which occasionally had a copy of L’Equipe, which would portray the heroes of the Tour de France in their yellow jerseys in colour on the cover, but in sepia inside. He bought the magazine, fascinated by the images, even if he couldn’t read it. “I can remember once saying, ‘I really like Jacques Anquetil’ to my father, which baffled him, since none of our family had ever been abroad. I saved my pocket money so that I could upgrade the gears on my bike from Simplex to Campagnolo. The box it came in was as important to me as the gear itself.”  What attracted Smith to the Campagnolo box, along with stamps and matchboxes which he has in large numbers – not just in his office but at his Nottingham HQ where he has an archivist trying to make sense of it all – is the way that designers can say so much in such a tiny space. He showed me a Japanese book of matches produced for a Tokyo nightclub in the 1970s. “It so clearly says it’s ‘contemporary’. You can hear the jazz already.”  Despite the huge assortment of assembled objects, Smith is reluctant to describe himself as a collector. “I just have a large quantity of the same things,” he says, matter of factly. “In my head, a collector is someone who selects an item or a subject. They collect them because they know a lot about them. Maybe I have a little knowledge about cycling jerseys.  In the early 1980s, on my first trips to Japan and India, I just got a bit carried away. I bought lots of Japanese furniture. In India, for some reason, I bought 15 wardrobes, and a piece of furniture that doubled as a staircase with drawers.” Smith had them all sent home on the Trans-Siberian Express.  He suggests that his is a collection that has found him. “Things collect me,” he says. “For some reason I started to be sent things, and they still keep coming.” There is an individual who regularly sends Smith artefacts that come unwrapped but covered in postage stamps. Others send him letters, toys, books and even ancient packets of razor blades. One visitor took careful photographs of his office, and later sent him a precisely detailed model of his office, complete with its chaotic contents. Smith’s London home, where he lives with his wife Pauline, is much calmer. “The house is hers. I do have one room for my stuff, but it’s mostly at the office that I get to look at things.” In 1996, patron of the arts and barrister Jill Ritblat gave the V&A Museum the largest single donation of clothes in its history, more than 1,000 items. There are ski outfits in postmodern pastel shades from the 1980s, and challenging Japanese experiments from Yohji Yamamoto and Issey Miyake, as well as couture from Dior and Saint Laurent. There is work by Alexander McQueen, Biba, Mary Quant, and Christian Lacroix, Emanuel Ungaro and Victor Edelstein, and an evening outfit produced by a dressmaker based on an idea of Ritblat’s own design.  The early days of British fashion from the 1960s are represented by Foale and Tuffin, and Zandra Rhodes, and from the 1980s by Margaret Howell and Katharine Hamnett. There is tailoring from Tommy Nutter and work by Giorgio Armani. It is by no means a complete account of contemporary fashion, but it is certainly extensive, and like the personal wardrobe that it is, combines some very special pieces made for family occasions, with more everyday wear. The connecting thread of Ritblat’s collection is Ritblat herself. These were all pieces that she had bought to wear. They were not chosen like stamps, or old masters, or celadon vases to make a self-conscious collection, but were the result of a continuing sequence of choices over time. Taken together they are a reflection of her life as an English woman of a certain background, at a particular time in the country’s history. “I never saw it as a collection, it was more like my diary, though I have never had time to write a diary. Each piece brings back memories of when I wore it,” says Ritblat. She made her first donation to the V&A at the end of 1996, but kept back the things that she wanted to be able to go on using, and they formed the core of a donation to the Design Museum of another 400 items in 2013. Ritblat is ambivalent about fashion. As a child she was somewhat self-conscious about being dressed by her mother, who had studied fashion herself. She was relieved to be able to assume the camouflage of the complex uniform rituals of an English public school for girls in the 1950s. “I loved my school uniform at Roedean; we were expected to change our clothes four times a day, as chic as anything. Scratchy afternoon dresses, regulation school loafers, very nice blazers and pleated skirts.” As a student barrister, she found herself adopting the formal uniform of the legal profession, but then as a married woman began to build a wardrobe that reflected the life that she was leading. Later, when she was making her own choices, she was early to discover Miuccia Prada. “What you pick out is based on whether it suits you and on the zeitgeist,” she explains. Smith, Heseltine and Ritblat represent three very different approaches to collecting. For Smith, the unruly mountain of things in his office, is, like the collection on Sigmund Freud’s desk, part of the tools of his imagination, a source of imagery and ideas for his work as a designer. It’s also a means of establishing his personality. Heseltine’s garden is an investment of time, resources and creativity in the remaking of a place that speaks to the future using living organisms that will outlive us all. Ritblat’s clothes are a record of the full life of an individual. All of these collections provide insights into unique people, their lives and times. In their different ways all three reflect on the nature of collecting, and its ability to be a creative activity in itself. In a world in which technology threatens to abolish the material world altogether, objects have not lost their allure. Their physical condition marks the passing of time in ways that pixels and code cannot do. Collecting is the means all of us have to create histories of our times, and even more, of ourselves. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two. 

In order to explore the mindset of the collector, Deyan Sudjic shines a light on the collected objects of Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol, and speaks to three British collectors to better understand what it is that makes collecting such a vital part of the human experience.

Exploring the mindset of the collector and why the act is a vital part of the human experience, with a focus on Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

Long ago, we wrenched grapevines from their natural habitat. Enthusiastic creepers, their shoots and tendrils are designed to cling onto whatever they can as they grow; winding themselves around trees or other plants in the wild. But we dragged vines out of the forest and forced them into rigid trellises, taming their wayward growth to produce a crop that served our purpose. Now, however, there’s a movement to re-integrate trees and plants into viticulture.  Cheval Blanc is one of the most famous proponents of agroforestry, which is a key part of its manifesto on a modern approach to viticulture. Augustin Fromageot – who now works full time at Anjou’s Domaine Belargus – was one of the team involved in the project, planting over 4,000 trees at the estate in two years. Until then, Fromageot – a trained geologist – had been working in South America, largely in cocoa and coffee, but the vine was calling. The team converted the estate into a laboratory of sorts – experimenting with different ways to integrate trees, within rows, replacing rows, in copses and borders or any other way you can imagine planting them alongside vines, all set to be followed in scientific programmes to track what works and what doesn’t. Now he’s doing a similar thing at Belargus, managing their extensive nature reserve and working to increase biodiversity on the estate – working to manage the landscape, as he sees it.  It’s an oversimplification to suggest that vines have gone directly from wild creepers to industrialised monocultures. Historically, farming was poly-cultural, a smallholding contained everything a family needed – and vines often formed part of that. Pergola trellising, for example, allowed for other crops to be planted beneath, while trees being used as a living trellis was not uncommon – often referenced as married vines, the Roman method of arbusta (favoured by Pliny, for example) – and grown alongside each other, culture en hautain, cultura mista or joualle. It’s this latter method, favoured in southwest France a century or so ago, that Cheval Blanc has in part been trialling, with individual trees replacing vines within a row. It looks beautiful, however brings its own complications, limiting mechanisation. It is, as Fromageot, says, a “poetic” way to integrate trees. You’ll still find vines trained up trees in Bolivia, in the Cinti Valley (as for the Jardín Oculto project), although these are ancient examples – and few would plant vines like this today. It’s an impractical way to farm, at the end of the day, one that only worked on a very small scale, but it’s clear that industrialisation has pushed monocultures too far – and agroforestry is one way in which producers are trying to fix the damage done.  Trees are remarkable in many ways, but they can have a huge impact on a vineyard. Their physical presence can influence the microclimate – protecting a vineyard from frost, heat and wind, as well as acting as a physical barrier between neighbouring properties – preventing any unwanted sprays drifting into your vines. They increase biodiversity – providing a habitat for insects and animals, in particular bats, and they absorb carbon dioxide. They reduce soil erosion (with topsoil erosion a major threat to agriculture worldwide) and increase organic matter, which in turn increases soil’s water-holding capacity – a major plus in dry regions. For Fromageot, trees help to create a resilience in the vineyard, reinforcing the vines’ natural defences, and therefore reducing the number of treatments required.   It’s easy to look at such a list and understand the principles at play. Clearly there are benefits for the environment – but what does it mean for the wine in your glass? Well, a lot, potentially. As few as five trees will influence the microclimate in a 100-metre radius; they can reduce the temperature in a parcel by as much as 2-3°C, preserving acidity, lowering alcohol and retaining precision in the aromatics. And, shielding a vineyard from extreme frost or heat, as well as providing better water reserves in the soils, allows for a more consistent yield, all of which is beneficial with climate change – with both more extreme weather conditions and global warming.  Of course, it’s not quite as simple as it sounds. “It teaches us an immense humility,” Fromageot tells me, as I start asking him about the world of agroforestry, and more specifically vitiforestry. He’s more than aware that agroforestry has become a buzzword in wine – it's suddenly very trendy. But there’s a lot of work involved in planting and managing trees. For starters, deciding where and how to plant trees is key. Their ability to influence microclimate can be both good and bad – with the potential to create frost pockets, to increase humidity, reduce airflow and therefore disease pressure. “You need to read the landscape,” Fromageot explains.  You also have to decide what sort of tree to plant, as well as the rootstock, ensuring it will complement viticulture. The first thing Fromageot does when taking on a project is look at all the local nurseries to understand the native varieties. Fruit trees are common, but as he notes, you need to ensure it has a different harvest time to grapes to avoid any conflict – he looks to apples, pears and prunes, in particular, highlighting how challenging peaches and apricots can be. Otherwise, the likes of maple, ash, mulberry, black poplar, hornbeam and linden can all work – essentially trees that share the same type of mycorrhizae (the microorganisms that attach to roots) as vines. You want to avoid anything that might taint your wine, or anything that will inhibit growth – such as walnut trees, which produce a toxic compound, juglone.  Trees have significantly different requirements to vines, needing different equipment and expertise to thrive, with – for example – extensive fertilisation to establish trees, which need richer soils. Trees will – wherever they are planted – occupy space that could otherwise be used for vines, yielding additional crop. And it’s a slow process, with it taking around a decade for trees to start influencing viticulture in a meaningful way, says Fromageot. All of this costs time and money – making agroforestry a luxury that not all producers can afford, although Fromageot feels that trees can be integrated in a different way for producers working at scale.  Alain Canet – an agronomist and specialist in agroforestry – argues that re-introducing trees is crucial for agriculture. “For some soils it is already too late,” he writes. “But for most, we have time to act... In agroecological terms, the transition to trees is the transition to life.”  There are many scientific reasons to favour vitiforestry, but for Fromageot there is a more compelling reason: the landscape fixes people to a geography, to a place, and that – he argues – is essential for making fine wine. Beauty in the landscape you live and work in helps us “find sense in life”, he tells me. Romantic? Maybe. But with the science to back it up, it’s hard not to be persuaded that trees line the way to a more sustainable future – in wine, yes, but in wider agriculture too. 

Agroforestry is the latest trend to take over the world of fine wine – but why? We sat down with Domaine Belargus’s Augustin Fromageot to find out why trees might just be the key to sustainable viticulture 

Agroforestry is the latest trend to take over the world of fine wine – but why? We sat down with Domaine Belargus’s Augustin Fromageot to find out more

Trees and wine: exploring the world of vitiforestry

Putting down roots: the world of vitiforestry 

Bordeaux is incredibly varied – with hugely different styles of wine produced across its appellations. Here, we run through everything you really need to know about each of the main subregions – and the best estates in each  

Explore Bordeaux, subregions, their wines and top estates – in Saint-Estephe, Pauillac, Saint-Julien, Margaux, Graves, Pessac-Leognan, Pomerol, Saint-Emilion 

Your guide to Bordeaux’s subregions, wines and top producers

Your guide to Bordeaux’s subregions   

The four-wheel drive pulls up and we pile out – Marco Pallanti’s two Jack Russells (Bach and Masetto) leading the charge as they tumble down and into the vineyard in front of us. The vines stretch down a steep slope, three triangular slithers slanting severely to a point, forming a natural amphitheatre, and Siena’s iconic tower just visible on the horizon, 20km to the south. CEO Lorenza Sebasti, her and Pallanti’s son Arturo, our Buying Director Corentin Margier and I are standing in Castello di Ama’s Montebuoni vineyard, which gives its name to their Riserva bottling. It’s the final stop in our tour of the various sites that make up the property’s 75 hectares of vines.  Just tasting Castello di Ama’s wines tells you that this is a special place, but of course there is no substitute for getting your feet on the ground, walking the vines and seeing the site yourself. Since four Roman families re-discovered this hilltop site in the 1970s, it has been lovingly restored, with significant investment in the vineyards and winery – and the original 55-hectare estate has grown to 115 hectares today (with 75 hectares of vines and 40 of olive groves), not to mention the extensive art collection that dots the property.  The vineyards are spread across four valleys, with each site within a 1.5-kilometre radius of the winery in Gaiole-in-Chianti. For winemaker Pallanti, this proximity is one of the keys to quality, not only allowing them to really understand each site, but also ensuring there is minimal time between picking fruit and getting it into the winery. For each parcel, they aim to have the fruit in the tank in under two hours. The property all sits between 420 and 530 metres above sea-level, on the higher side for the region and another defining element for Castello di Ama, lending their wines great freshness and finesse.  The northern flank of the estate is the 16.1-hectare La Casuccia, dominated by stony clay soils and surrounded by stone walls. Here the “rich, fat soil” (as described by Arturo Pallanti) is home to largely Sangiovese, with one historical parcel of Merlot. The tenderloin of the property, it produces opulent and expressive wines, and a single-vineyard Gran Selezione is made in only top vintages (as for Bellavista).  Moving south you come to San Lorenzo which forms the foundation of the eponymous Gran Selezione, a wine made every vintage. While the vintages from 1982 to 1990 were made exclusively with fruit from this vineyard, it has evolved to become a blend of plots – including fruit from Bellavista and La Casuccia in particular in the years they aren’t made. The soils here are chalky yet with plenty of clay-rich schist – a site that doesn’t have the extremes of Montebuoni, Bellavista or La Casuccia, but brings together some of the best characters of them all in its 16.5 hectares.  Sandwiched between San Lorenzo and Bellavista lies L’Apparita, the special three-hectare plot of Merlot that is behind Tuscany’s first – and one of its most iconic – Merlot wines. Clay, chalk and the altitude (500 metres) create a wine that has both power and freshness. The neighbouring Bellavista produces some of Castello di Ama’s most powerful, yet fine and floral, wines – and is home to their oldest vines. South/southwest-facing, its 22.5 hectares of vines (around 80% Sangiovese, with the remainder Malvasia Nera) bask in the sunshine, sitting in stony, clay-chalk soils. In top vintages, they produce a single-site Gran Selezione from Bellavista (first made in 1978) – an impressive and age-worthy wine.  The final piece of the puzzle is Montebuoni – where we’re standing. Pallanti and Sebasti purchased this 14.7-hectare slice of vineyard in 1997, naming it after the village opposite. Arturo tells us how as a child he once tried to ride his bike up the slope – a mistake he never made again. The gradient here is so drastic that even driving down it in a pick-up frays the nerves, working from the chalky scree that feels destined to leave the wheels skidding, down to the more clay-rich foot of the vineyard. The vines here are divided between Sangiovese (around half the site), with Merlot, Cabernet Franc and Malvasia Nera – and the wines reflect the site’s angular slopes, pointed and driven with a backbone of bright acidity.  It’s been over 40 years since Pallanti arrived at the estate, and over 30 since Sebasti took over as CEO. Together they have nurtured this remarkable property, weaving together the threads of these special vineyards to craft wines that set the benchmark for the region. Neither are set to retire any time soon, but now Arturo has returned to join the family business – adding to the complex patchwork that defines this soulful estate.  Explore all Castello di Ama listings or read more Editorial 

We have long championed the wines of Castello di Ama – an estate that crafts some of Chianti, and Tuscany’s, best wines. We visited the property to dive into their special terroir; here we walk you through their patchwork of vineyards       

Walking you through top Chianti Classico wine estate Castello di Ama’s terroir – visiting La Casuccia, San Lorenzo, L’Apparita, Bellavista and Montebuoni

Exploring Castello di Ama’s vineyards

Piecing together the puzzle at Castello di Ama

Broman

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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

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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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