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  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


The 2026 Maison Leroy Collection

Barolo remains the most important region in the world for Nebbiolo. This variety is one of the world’s most sensitive and difficult to grow, rarely found outside Piedmont. While there are a handful of other high-quality enclaves across Piedmont including Valmaggiore (24km north of Barolo) and the cooler sites of Gattinara and Ghemme – collectively known as Alto Piedmont (or Alto Piemonte), nowhere else matches Barolo and neighbouring Barbaresco for complexity and ageing potential.  The wines are typically pale ruby in colour with grippy tannins, high acidity and a flavour profile of red cherry, mulberry, camphor and rose petal. The grape’s almost transparent character (similar to Pinot Noir) makes it a great transmitter of terroir – producing many nuanced styles, flavours and aromas – from the most delicate and floral to the most structured and mineral, and everywhere in between. It is this complex variety within such a small region that makes the grape, and the varying communes of Barolo, so interesting. Barolo has a cooler microclimate compared to nearby Barbaresco, resulting in a longer ripening season. While this means it is more sensitive to vintage variation, in the best years the wines reach highs unmatched anywhere else. Dry Barolo has been produced in the region since the mid-1800s. A wine that was a favourite amongst the aristocratic families of the Savoy dynasty, it is thought to have been first produced in this style by King Carlo Alberto’s estate in nearby Pollenzo. The aristocracy bankrolled wine production in Barolo, helping the pioneering winemakers at the time – such as Staglieno and the French oenologist Oudart – improve the quality and reputation of the wines. Their aristocratic link earned Barolo the nickname “the king of wines and the wine of kings”. Understanding the variety of styles of Barolo to a large extent depends upon where the grapes are grown. The landscape of Barolo is made up of many small undulating hillsides where exposition, topography and altitude all play important roles in the final character of a wine made in a specific part of the region or vineyard. Historically the sub-regions were not so important, largely due to the fact that Barolo wines existed exclusively as blends of fruit from across the region (often including grapes from the vineyards of Barbaresco). The 1961 vintage, however, represents a significant turning point when both Prunotto and Vietti released single-vineyard Barolos from Barolo Bussia and Rocche di Castiglione. While it was common knowledge amongst the local grape brokers which parts of the valley produced the best Nebbiolo, it wasn’t until the 1970s when these place names first came to print in Luigi Veronelli’s map. At the most basic level Barolo is divided into two valleys: the Central Valley and the Serralunga Valley. The Central Valley – including sub-regions of La Morra, Barolo and Novello – produce a more approachable style, noted for their fragrance and elegance, thought to be due to the distinct blue-grey marl content in the Tortonian soils found in these vineyards. The Serralunga Valley – with its sub-regions of Serralunga d’Alba and Monforte d’Alba – tend to create more powerful, tannic, concentrated wines due to the higher content of clay, limestone and sandstone found in the Serravalian soils. In Castiglione Falletto there is a richer concentration of sandstone and this is generally thought to produce a middle ground between the more structured character of the Serravalian soils and the elegance brought about by the Tortonian soils.  While these variations in soil throughout the sub-regions play some part in the differences in the structure and flavour profile of different Barolos, this is just one factor and should be understood as broad generalisations. The complex terroirs are defined not just by the soils, but by the varying expositions, altitudes, viticutural techniques, clones, pruning and winemaking methods which vary from estate to estate – making it impossible to provide a completely definitive profile of each area.    
A guide to Barolo's communes  There are 11 village communes within the Barolo DOCG: La Morra, Barolo, Castiglione Falletto, Serralunga d’Alba, Cherasco, Diano d’Alba, Grinzane Cavour, Monforte d’Alba, Novello, Roddi and Verduno. Below you’ll find a guide to the distinctive style of the main communes, as well as the best growers from each.  La Morra Wines from La Morra can be some of the most perfumed Barolo, typically with soft, smooth tannins. It is believed that the fine sandy soil of the region is behind the wines’ elegance. As the largest Barolo subregion, however, La Morra is the most diverse both in style and quality. Typically, these wines can be much more approachable in youth and tend to fair better in cooler vintages. Top producers in the region include Roberto Voerzio – who makes a unique style for the region, with strict pruning leading to miniscule yields and austere, tannic wines with long ageing potential. Poderi Oddero is more typical for the commune, producing bright, fruity Barolos with distinctly elegant tannins. Elio Altare is known for more modern-style Barolos which are matured both in traditional large barrels, as well as smaller barriques, and some new oak for their single-vineyard wines. Top vineyards: Brunate, Cerequio, Rocche dell’Annunziata Barolo Similar to La Morra, the Barolo sub-region produces broad, open, velvety Barolo but often with a bit more structure and concentration than those from La Morra. The region is home to some of the most historic sites, including Cannubi – a Cru that was singled out as an exceptional site even before the creation of the Barolo appellation (with the earliest bottled example of this site dating back to 1752). It is also home to some of the most respected producers in the region, who make markedly different styles of Barolo – further confirming that location is only part of the puzzle. Fierce traditionalists Bartolo Mascarello famously don’t make single-vineyard wines but their blended Barolo remains one of the region’s finest. Guiseppe Rinaldi’s winery is also staunchly traditional in their winemaking, seeing cross-commune blends as the ultimate expression of Barolo. winery is also staunchly traditional both in their winemaking, and blending of vineyards, seeing cross-commune blends as the ultimate expression of Barolo. Luciano Sandrone is more modern in style, the wines made in an elegant style that is more approachable in youth but also offers fantastic ageing potential – making them some of the region’s most collectable. Top vineyards: Cannubi, Ravera, Bricco delle Viole Castiglione Falletto  Although situated in the Serralunga valley, Castiglione Falletto falls somewhere in the middle between the elegant and fragrant qualities of La Morra and Barolo, and the boldness and concentration of Serralunga and Monforte. This is due to the aspect of the best slopes here, where the vines have maximum exposure to the sun, meaning riper fruit and added concentration. Giuseppe Mascarello produces one of Barolo’s most famous single-vineyard wines from the Monprivato Cru. Traditional in style, the wine is fermented in tank and aged in large oak. Vietti – a true pioneer of single-Cru Barolos – is also based here, as it has been since the 1800s. This estate has not only some of the best label designs in the world, but access to some of the finest Crus in Barolo, including Ravera, Rocche di Castiglione and Brunate. Top vineyards: Rocche di Castiglione, Fiasco, Villero Serralunga d’Alba  Serralunga is defined by its high concentration of Sant’Agata soils. Growers here talk about the vines feeling pain, as the harder soils put more stress on the vine, producing wines of great depth and power – as well as some of the highest tannin levels and the most full-bodied Barolos of any region. The wines can often have a distinctive bitter orange aroma. The wines are solid and typically austere, but can also be incredibly elegant and expressive, some of the most terroir-driven and long-lasting Barolo. By far the most famous and revered wine from Serralunga is Giacomo Conterno’s Monfortino. Monfortino was in fact the first ever producer-named Barolo made in the Riserva style, with the first vintage made in the 1920s (today it comes from the Cascina Francia Cru). Although based in Barbaresco, Bruno Giacosa produces two of Barolo’s most revered wines from the Serralunga Cru of Falletto, released only in top vintages. These are two of the most consistent expressions of top single-vineyard Nebbiolo in Barolo. Top vineyards: Cascina Francia, Falletto, Ornato Monforte d’Alba Defined by concentration and structure, the soils in Monforte d’Alba contain more clay than limestone – the opposite of Serralunga. The resulting wines tend to have more volume on the palate and boldness, making them the most concentrated Barolos. The wines exhibit classic rose petal, clay pot, clove, camphor and cardamom aromas, and particularly bold tannins. Look out for bottlings from Elio Grasso whose Case Matè Barolo comes from Ginestra. Bussia is one of the most famous, but also largest Crus, producing many different styles. The best part of the vineyard is Upper Bussia; a natural amphitheatre with varying expositions, when combined it produces wines of fantastic complexity. For the ultimate insight into the vineyard, try the wines of Aldo Conterno – who makes five separate bottlings all from the Bussia Cru. Top vineyards: Bussia, Ginestra, Mosconi Browse all Barolo or read more Editorial 

Age-worthy yet terroir transparent, Barolo is a fascinating region. Its complex, varied terroir often draws comparisons with Burgundy. Here we delve into “the king of wines and wine of kings” – from its aristocratic beginnings to the villages, vineyards and producers to look out for.


Your guide to “the king of wines and wine of kings” – Barolo: from its aristocratic beginnings to the villages, vineyards and producers to look out for.

Your definitive guide to Barolo 

Honeysuckle, peach, jasmine. Ripe, perfumed and exotic, viscous and heady – but, at its best, with a mineral, saline line and phenolic grip that keeps its hedonism in check. Condrieu is a wine like no other – and one that couldn’t be much less fashionable if it tried.  And yet, its top bottlings are incredibly hard to find. The likes of Georges Vernay’s Coteau de Vernon or Guigal’s La Doriane fly out on release. Chapoutier’s Coteau de Chery is absorbed effortlessly by France’s finest restaurant wine lists. The iconic Château-Grillet has almost vanished from the world of retail since it was taken over by Artémis. Production might be limited – but it’s also clear that there’s more than enough demand for these very special wines from the Northern Rhône.  The appellation and its unique expression of the Viognier grape has a rocky history. The Romans were the first to cultivate vines in this corner of the Rhône Valley – and they’ve been there ever since. By the 17th century, the wines from the steep slopes around the village of Condrieu were renowned throughout France. In 1853, there were 143 hectares of vines in the region – but then plague and pest arrived: powdery mildew swept through the vines, swiftly followed by phylloxera, decimating vineyards across Europe. With two World Wars, as well as the industrialisation of the valley, the workforce fled the vines for more stable, salaried factory work: looking up at the back-breaking angle of its slopes, entirely unmechanisable, it’s easy to see why the region’s vineyards were almost entirely abandoned. When the Condrieu Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée (AOC) was created in 1940 (encompassing the villages of Condrieu, Vérin and Saint-Michel-sur-Rhône), just six hectares of vines remained.  Only eight of the potential 170 hectares were planted in the 1960s and Condrieu’s future looked uncertain. But one vigneron was quietly working to change that.  Georges Vernay – whose father Francis Vernay had helped create the appellation after planting his family’s first vines on the Coteau de Vernon in 1937 – believed in the alchemy between Condrieu’s biotite granite slopes and the Viognier grape. At the time, the region was best-known for its stone-fruit – with a kilo of peaches worth significantly more than a kilo of grapes. (The area is still known for its fruit today, Jean-Marc Roulot sources the apricots for his eau de vie and liqueur from the Rhône.) When Georges Vernay uprooted orchards to plant Viognier, people called him a fool.  “No one believed in Condrieu anymore, or in Viognier anymore,” Philippe Guigal – the winemaker and third-generation at the helm of his family’s company – tells me. Philippe’s father Marcel was another pioneer of the region, persisting in making fine wine from the region’s uneconomically steep terraces.  Vernay kept his faith too – championing Condrieu, but also Viognier. Almost all the Viognier in the world was planted in Condrieu at the time, and Vernay supplied cuttings to those outside the region – encouraging others to plant this distinctive grape. At the same time, he championed the region with his age-worthy wines, especially the now-iconic Coteau de Vernon.  By 1986 there were still only 19 hectares of Condrieu planted, but Vernay’s battle started paying off – wine-lovers fell for Condrieu’s rich, textural whites and plantings rocketed. There were 38 hectares of vines by 1992 and 217 by 2024. But it wasn’t just in the Rhône that Viognier finally found its footing – plantings appeared in the Ardèche, the Languedoc, Australia, California (especially with the wave of Rhône Rangers, led by Randall Grahm) and beyond. Viognier’s lustre had been restored.  Although now much more widely planted, it’s only in Condrieu that Viognier reaches such heights. Here, on steep terraced slopes in this hallowed corner of the Rhône, the vines sit almost directly on the granite bedrock – a specific type of granite laced with biotite, an iron-rich black mica. It’s this biotite granite that defined the original Condrieu appellation created in 1940 – encompassing vineyards around the villages of Condrieu, Vérin and Saint-Michel-sur-Rhône. The monopole appellation Château-Grillet (sadly unable to comment for this feature) sits within Condrieu, classified four years prior, and sharing the same biotite granite. The iron in the soils is key, lending much-needed tension to the potentially flabby Viognier.  Finding – and keeping – that tension is key to the best Condrieu. And it isn’t about acidity per se, but a sense of freshness.   For Emma Amsellem – who works alongside her mother Christine Vernay at Domaine Georges Vernay, “It’s a combination of different things.” She attributes much to their farming (which is both organic and biodynamic), as well as working with old vines and low yields (normally around 27-30hl/ha). Maxime Chapoutier – who works alongside his larger-than-life father Michel Chapoutier at the eponymous empire – echoes how important vine age is for Viognier, much more so than Syrah or Marsanne, he says. He finds Viognier starts to produce fruit of significantly more complexity at 20-30 years of age, but the vines can also lose interest if they’re too old.   “The beauty of the balance of Viognier comes from its dry extract – from its bitterness,” he explained. It is, Chapoutier says, the hardest grape to pick – harvest too early and you won’t have the necessary dry extract, but harvest too late and the aromatics are too much. Ansellem also emphasised the importance of picking date: although you want to retain as much natural acidity as possible, you also need Viognier to be sufficiently ripe – and the window is getting smaller and smaller with climate change.  The challenge, as Philippe Guigal puts it, is to keep the richness, the full expression of Viognier, as well as its drinkability and salinity. He introduced a Champenois-style cycle, very long and slow, for their Condrieu – something that helps bring out the grape’s aromatics and structure, a concept echoed by both Ansellem and Chapoutier, working with Viognier’s natural thick skins. Chapoutier also highlighted the importance of oxygenising the must and then racking as little as possible, retaining the lees to help build on the grape’s “noble bitterness”.  Guigal is also particularly careful with fermentation temperatures, feeling it is key to keep ferments under 12°C to avoid any potentially heavy aromas.  It's that dry extract that allows top Condrieu to age so beautifully too. Chapoutier explains how he likes to wait at least five years before opening their Coteau de Chery, but it can age for 25, developing more layers of complexity – with notes of honey, lanolin, gingerbread and dried citrus peel. “A great Condrieu is a wine that doesn’t taste of Viognier,” he says.  Tasting through a flight of the region’s top wines last week was fascinating – from Chapoutier’s remarkably fresh, floral Coteau de Chery to the decadent yet mineral Coteau de Vernon from Georges Vernay. More than anything was perhaps seeing the response from those tasting – the wines far surpassing their stereotypical expectations. Not all the haters left lovers, but they certainly had a newfound respect for the style; and those that were already fans fell even harder for its charms.  There’s next to no room for further plantings in Condrieu, largely thanks to Georges Vernay’s efforts championing the region, and quality in the appellation is higher than ever before. The style of its heady wines will always be divisive – and perhaps that’s a good thing given how limited production of the best wines is. Its cool credentials may not quite have caught up yet, but it’s time to open up to the region’s opulent embrace – you won’t regret it.  Top Condrieu cuvées to look out for  Chapoutier’s Coteau de Chery: From a single parcel of vines between 40 and 80 years in age, this is aged entirely in old oak (larger, 600-litre casks). Production is tiny (often only two barrels) and goes almost exclusively to restaurants in France.  Georges Vernay’s Coteau de Vernon: This is just a stone’s throw (100m or so) from Vernay’s other single-vineyard, Les Chaillés de l’Enfer (literally meaning the terraces of hell, for its steep south-facing slopes). From the region’s most famous pioneer, the vines were planted in the 1930s and 1960s, in a natural amphitheatre, producing a profound expression of Viognier that ages beautifully.  Guigal’s La Doriane: Guigal’s top Condrieu is a blend of their top five parcels across the appellation, averaging 35 years in age, matured in 100% new oak – which is seamlessly integrated with the concentrated and powerful fruit.  Château-Grillet: The tiny monopole appellation covers 3.5 hectares of vines. Owned by the Artémis group (owners of Ch. Latour) since 2011, its wines are some of the most sought-after in the world, largely disappearing into wine lists.  Yves Gangloff’s Condrieu: Renowned for its voluptuous style, in all the best ways, this bottling from this famous winemaker is rightfully prized.  André Perret’s Chéry: Known also for their Clos Chanson cuvée, Chéry also comes from the Coteau de Chery, from a three-hectare plot of 70-year-old vines.  Ogier’s Les Vieilles Vignes de Jacques Vernay: Only 125 cases are made of this wine per year, making it incredibly hard to find.  Marie & Pierre Benetière’s Condrieu: Possibly even harder to find than their astounding Côte-Rôties, Pierre was inspired by and studied under Vernay before making his own wines.   Explore all current listings of Condrieu or read more Editorial 

The epitome of Viognier, Condrieu makes some of the world’s most remarkable wines – yet this appellation in the Northern Rhône came close to disappearing. Sophie Thorpe dives into its brush with fate and how producers manage Viognier’s natural hedonism to create wines that stand the test of time 

Condrieu’s wines are better than ever. We talk to Georges Vernay, Guigal and Chapoutier about the appellation’s comeback 

Condrieu’s comeback with Vernay, Guigal and Chapoutier 

Condrieu’s comeback 

The Langhe is unspeakably beautiful. You may have seen Allessandro Masnaghetti’s 3D maps – a painstaking project by this now-iconic cartographer to translate these terroirs to paper. Their textured surfaces speak of Barolo and Barbaresco’s complex geology – and yet they don’t fully convey its endless curves and corners, winding roads and intricate jigsaw of villages and vineyards, nestled in amongst each other. This is a landscape carved and sculpted by nature over 15 million years; the vines cling to precipitous slopes, sweeping down toward the valleys. Like the effortless lines of Michaelangelo’s marble, it’s a masterpiece.  We’ve just returned from a trip to Piedmont’s most prestigious vineyards, dipping a toe in the waters of this fascinating area over three days. With the layers of region, village (11 in Barolo, three in Barbaresco), its Crus (officially known as MGAs, Menzione Geografica Aggiuntiva) and individual vigne or vineyards, Barolo and Barbaresco are often compared to Burgundy. These layers of complexity and nuance are what wine-lovers thrive on, the detail that allows us to indulge new levels of geekery. Add to this the finesse and aromatic perfume of Nebbiolo, and it’s easy to see why Pinot Noir lovers fall for the region.   While wine has long been made in the Langhe (for at least 2,000 years), the first dry Barolo is thought to have been bottled in 1844, with wines before that often sweet or lightly sparkling. It’s only really in the 1960s that the region’s reputation started to be built. Wines were – as in Burgundy – mainly made by négociants until this point, when individual estates started making their own wine. Traditionally wines from across the region were blended to create an expression of Barolo as a whole, but this too started to change. Prunotto and Vietti were the first to identify and vinify individual plots in Barolo, following a trip to Burgundy in the 1950s and ’60s (read more about the birth of Barolo’s Crus here); while in Barbaresco, it was Angelo Gaja who started to make wine exclusively from vineyards the family owned (from 1961) and then bottled the single vineyard Sorì San Lorenzo separately for the first time in 1967.  Traditionally the wines were made with long maceration times (leaving the wine in contact with the skins for 50 or more days) and several years in large oak casks, to extract colour, tannin and flavour from the thin-skinned Nebbiolo. These wines were immensely age-worthy, but their rasping tannins often needed time to become approachable – in some cases the fruit would fade while waiting for the tannins to come round. Winemaking – as elsewhere – was rudimentary, and the late 20th century brought with it modern technology and better hygiene. But the 1980s also saw Barolo divided.  This was the period of Parker and Parkerization, with rich, voluptuous wines with sweet fruit and vanilla tones from new French oak all the rage. Barolo couldn’t be further from this style – and its winemakers were humble farmers, with little recognition (financial or otherwise) for their work. But then a group of producers, led by Elio Altare, embraced the barrique (the traditional 225-litre French oak barrel), looking to put Barolo and its wines on the world map. These modernists, sometimes known as the “Barolo boys”, used new oak, and shorter, more vigorous extractions to craft wines that were fruitier, darker and more immediate – and received instant acclaim. The traditionalists of the region, however, fiercely defended the Langhe’s historical ways, the use of long macerations and large, old botte casks. Bartolo Mascarello famously released a label stating “No Barrique, No Berlusconi” (adorning the 1998 and 1999 vintage), decrying the use of new oak and Berlusconi’s right-wing politics.   Modernisation was essential – and better hygiene, with the arrival of stainless steel, was revolutionary. Today, as more and more producers around the world turn to large oak casks, it’s unsurprising that many in Barolo and Barbaresco are returning to their botti, and new oak has generally fallen from favour (at least in high proportions), yet the barrel certainly lives on, even if still controversial.  “Barrique… it’s an ugly word here in the Langhe,” says Dave Fletcher, the Australian producer who left the Yarra to make wine in Piedmont over a decade ago (under Fletcher Wines and Cantina della Stazione). He avoids new wood, but prefers barrels for the ability to vinify plots separately – something he feels is important for quality. There are also  those who feel that the minimum ageing requirements (18 months in oak for Barbaresco and 24 months in oak for Barolo) are old-fashioned, forcing the production of wood-heavy wines that are removed from current tastes – even suggesting that there’s a movement for these minimum times in oak to be adjusted.  As in Burgundy, whole-bunch has become a divisive topic. Some wines have traditionally been made with whole-bunch fermentation (as with Burlotto’s Monvigliero), but now some producers feel a small percentage can help bring freshness in warmer vintages, while others feel it distracts from the terroir, and doesn’t suit Nebbiolo.  Climate change is seeing a shift in the most prized plots, with some producers now feeling south/southwest-facing sites (historically the most desirable) too warm, and north/northeasterly exposure better for the long term, or finding other ways to manage global warming. Land prices have been rising, and there’s an increasing amount of outside investment, as well an increasing number of producers arriving from beyond Piedmont – although there are still those, such as Vietti’s Eugenio Palumbo, Burlotto’s Alessandria or Gaja’s Gaia Gaja, who were born and bred here, and have been embedded in the industry, and often their family business, their entire lives. We dove into recent vintages, especially the very different yet both excellent 2020 and 2021s, the former open and approachable, the latter closed and needing time. We talked about clones and rootstocks, the persistence and suitability of Chardonnay in the Langhe, the pressure on the region’s biodiversity – and much, much more.  We’ll be publishing more in the coming weeks and months, as well as shining a light on the wines of the region – one that should be part of any collector’s cellar. But, as with the wines here, there is so much to consider. As Nicola Oberto of Trediberri told us, “It doesn’t need to be obvious – it needs to be interesting.” And that, the endless nuance and complexity, is what makes the region’s great Nebbiolo so enchanting.  Keep an eye out for more on Piedmont over the coming months or browse all current listings from the region 

Just returned from a whistlestop tour of Barolo and Barbaresco, Sophie Thorpe mulls the complexity that defines the Langhe, and makes it so endlessly appealing

Just returned from a tour of Barolo and Barbaresco, Sophie Thorpe mulls the complexity that defines the Langhe, and makes it so endlessly appealing

The allure of the Langhe’s Barolo and Barbaresco

The allure of the Langhe

Bordeaux’s white wines don’t often make it into the limelight and Ch. Margaux is one of the few top estates – beyond the borders of Graves and Pessac-Léognan – to make a white that is as highly rated, and collected, as its red.  Last year, lovers of its famous Pavillon Blanc were rewarded with the news of an addition to the First Growth’s range: a second white wine, known as Pavillon Blanc Second Vin.  From the 2004 vintage, the team became increasingly selective with the fruit that made it into Pavillon Blanc, and from 2008 only a third or maximum half of the Sauvignon Blanc they harvest was being bottled. The team started occasionally bottling a barrel or two of a possible second wine, with the final result often poured for the harvest team. They rapidly realised, however, that the quality was good enough to deserve much more than internal consumption.  The wine is a true second selection and therefore sees exactly the same winemaking and attention as Pavillon Blanc proper. Pure Sauvignon Blanc, it spends around nine months in barrel, with circa 25% new wood, and half the barrels larger demi-muids, and some bâtonnage at the start of the wine’s maturation. One of the most important stages is the pressing, which is done extremely gently, stopping as soon as the pH rises by 0.10, and meaning they only manage to get around 50cl of juice per kilo of grapes.  While the first release came from the smallest white vintage on record for the property (2022), the new release – set for Thursday 16th January – comes from the 2023 vintage, the highest yield on record since 1988 (although still an extremely modest 37hl/ha at Ch. Margaux).  We covered the conditions of 2023 extensively in our report on the year, but – as with 2023 in Burgundy – there was a heatwave as the harvest arrived. The team at Ch. Margaux stops picking as soon as the mercury hits 32°C – meaning that the pickers would start work as soon as it was light enough, but have to stop as early as 10.30am on some days. With the hot weather, the sugar levels started to creep up rapidly; but the Sauvignon Blanc was all picked between 23rd and 30th August – early enough to retain plenty of freshness.  More approachable than its big sibling Pavillon Blanc, Pavillon Blanc Second Vin is nevertheless a wine with serious ageing capacity – and one that offers a taste of the property’s masterful expression of Sauvignon Blanc at a very appealing price. It’s a stunning wine – a unique expression of Bordeaux Blanc from this top estate – and one that we can’t recommend highly enough. 2023 Pavillon Blanc Second Vin  The nose is beautifully expressive, with fresh pear, chalk, lime juice and grapefruit pith. On the palate, the wine is long and taut – yet with a waxy texture that might lead you to believe there’s some Semillon in the blend. This is pure Sauvignon Blanc, however – pure and vibrant, green-fruited yet not at all green. Forget cat’s pea and any grassy, herbaceous tones: this is a wine about tension and freshness, with hints of jasmine and honeysuckle. It’s vibrant and bright, with a satisfying bitterness to the long, mouth-watering finish. Already stunning now, this will only get better in bottle – with everything in place to allow it to evolve for 10-15 years. Sensational.  With 13% alcohol and a pH of 3.15, the wine was matured in around 25% new oak. Around 10,000 bottles were produced (versus just 8,000 in 2022).   The 2023 vintage of Pavillon Blanc Second Vin was released on Thursday 16th January 2025 and is available now

Last year saw Ch. Margaux launch the first vintage of a new wine in the First Growth’s line-up: Pavillon Blanc Second Vin. Ahead of the second release, here’s everything you need to know about the wine 

Everything you need to know about the second wine to Pavillon Blanc, Bordeaux First Growth Ch. Margaux’s new white wine, made for the first time in 2022 

Ch. Margaux’s Pavillon Blanc Second Vin 

The new release of Pavillon Blanc Second Vin

Burgundy’s vignerons are currently preoccupied with the 2024 vintage – one that has been challenging, with warm, wet weather and high disease pressure, leading to a relatively late harvest in comparison to recent years. But we’ll soon be back on the ground, tasting the 2023s with producers. We’ll be providing a full, detailed report as soon as we can, but – in the meantime – here’s a preview of what to expect from the year.   The 2023 growing season in Burgundy  The growing season wasn’t – for once – hugely eventful in 2023, until the harvest, at least. The winter was warm and dry, delaying budbreak until early April and allowing the region to escape the dangers of frost. The warm weather continued, with a quick and even flowering – promising a generous and homogenous crop. Across the season, rainfall was average for the region. Showers seemed to arrive when needed to support vine growth, with some storms in June, but any disease pressure was easily handled by producers. There was a little localised hail in July, with some damage reported in Meursault.  The first grapes were brought in from 25th August (starting with those destined for Crémant de Bourgogne). Fruit destined for still wines started coming in from the very end of August: 29th for Alvina Pernot, Au Pied du Mont Chauve and Louis Jadot following on 4th September, and Samuel Billaud in Chablis on 11th, with all the fruit in by the end of September. Just as harvest got underway, however, temperatures soared: making for incredibly challenging conditions. As Frédéric Barnier at Jadot explained, it was the first time they’d had to pick in the middle of a heatwave – but was, as he said, “probably our future”. The challenge was largely human: ensuring the safety of those out in the vines picking. There were widespread reports after five people died further north in Champagne due to the strenuous conditions. Some producers harvested at night, or as early as possible once dawn broke, ensuring they stopped before the heat of the day set in, to reduce the risk to pickers. Barnier explained that, although challenging for the team, the hot spell was helpful for the reds. While they picked the whites, the conditions allowed the Pinot Noir to concentrate and gain density, as well as reducing the sometimes-extreme volumes.  The yields were so generous (thanks to the even flowering, warm conditions and plentiful rainfall) that green harvesting was key. Frédéric Weber of Bouchard explained how the vineyards were “a wall of grapes” and they had to drop half the crop. Faiveley green harvested across 80% of its vines. Nevertheless, producers saw record volumes, even on normally low-yielding old vines. At Heresztyn-Mazzini, they reported finding single bunches on their old vines that weighed half a kilo, and Cyril Audoin found he was at the legal maximum even on his oldest plots. At Domaine des Lambrays, Jacques Devauges reported that there’s a third more of their Grand Cru Clos des Lambrays in the vintage, with an impressive 40hl/ha. There were even reports of producers reaching 100hl/ha in potential crop.  Although most vignerons saw even higher yields than 2022, that wasn’t universally the case – as at Lamarche and Hubert Lamy, who both brought in slightly smaller crops than the year before. Even at these addresses, however, producers are happy to have full cellars – and with high-quality wines too.  Key decisions for Burgundy 2023  “It was hard to make bad wines in 2022, but was very easy to take wrong decisions in 2023,” said Louis-Michel Liger-Belair of Domaine du Comte Liger-Belair when we visited him last year.  Harvest dates are always important when it comes to the pernickety Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, but there were many elements to consider in this vintage. Space was a challenge for some producers, on a purely practical level, needing the requisite number of tanks at the right time to allow them to harvest at the right time. The hot end to the season risked losing freshness, so preserving acidity – especially in the whites – was key. As mentioned above, managing the crop-load was important, balancing quantity and quality. Yields were less of a concern when it came to the white grapes, as Chardonnay is better able to manage high yields, however there was potential concern over concentration for the reds. Good producers, of course, are well aware of the need to balance the vine to avoid any potential dilution – and handled the season to harvest a good crop of high-quality fruit.  With the Chardonnay, Barnier explained how at Jadot they blocked the malolactic on some lots to retain freshness; while for the reds, sorting was important (to remove any shrivelled berries) and saignée common. At Jadot, they bled off between 10 and 20% of the juice. We haven’t yet spoken to many producers regarding élevage; with higher volumes, however, we anticipate that there may be higher portions of new oak at some addresses, while others will have looked to alternative vessels to complement their “standard” portion of wood.  The style of the wines in 2023  So far, we’ve tasted very little – only the whites from Samuel Billaud and Alvina Pernot (both of which were very impressive – find more on these below), and we’ll be reporting more once we’ve been out to taste more comprehensively. We can, however, tell you what producers are saying – and what we’re expecting based on the growing season and our conversations so far.  Following on from the good yields of 2022, 2023 was another plentiful vintage – allowing producers to replenish stocks, and cellars are looking much less bare. With the warm weather and good rainfall, the wines are riper than the 2022s, quite generous in style, with an approachability that means they will drink well in youth – yet don’t let that fool you into thinking they don’t also have good acidity.  We have heard rumours of heterogeneity, and – as ever – producer decisions are key in determining success; with the human hand likely more important than site this year. Those that over-cropped risked producing dilute wines – but they are undoubtedly in the minority, and lesser names. That said, from what we’ve tasted and heard, there is good consistency across sites – from village through to Premier and Grand Cru, and across the Côte d’Or.  Alcohol levels are average for the region – sitting between 12% for Bourgogne or village wines, and up to 13.5% for some Grands Crus. The reds are not powerhouses; Jean-Marie Fourrier compared them to 2009 for their ripeness and the generous yields, but Barnier at Jadot feels they sit between the 2017s and 2019s in terms of richness, with a “buvabilité” (“drinkability”) that is very appealing. We expect the whites to be particularly strong this year – offering similar acidity levels to 2022, but additional richness.  At Alvina Pernot, it’s brilliant to see the style develop – with a very complete range of effortless composure; we loved all the wines, but the Meursault Perrières was an undeniable highlight. Alvina Pernot and Philippe Abadie love the purity and balance in their wines, and suggest the 2023s are a blend of the 2020 and 2022 vintages, while Barnier points to a vintage somewhere between 2015 and 2018. The 2018 vintage is also the reference point for Samuel Billaud in Chablis, whose wines were already enticingly aromatic in July this year – precise and gourmand, with a satisfying suppleness.  News from the region  Burgundy, more than ever before, is a region constantly shifting, with land changing hands, producers and ranges evolving. Here are some of the key developments to be aware of for the vintage:  William Fèvre: This benchmark Chablis producer was acquired by Domaines Barons de Rothschild (of Ch. Lafite Rothschild fame) and 2023 will be the first vintage under their ownership – although be reassured that longtime winemaker Didier Séguier remains in situ.  Alvina Pernot: Alvina Pernot stepped down from her family estate (Domaine Paul Pernot) in time for the 2023 harvest, to focus exclusively on her project with husband Philippe Abadie. There is also a new Premier Cru in the line-up this year – Puligny-Montrachet Champs Gains.  Henri Boillot: The 2023 is the 40th vintage that Henri Boillot has produced of their monopole Clos de la Mouchère – a site to which he is rightfully attached. He also noted that the range is around 90% domaine in the vintage.  Hubert Lamy: The 2023 vintage is the first to be made in his new, enlarged cellar.  Charles van Canneyt: The star winemaker behind Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat purchased Domaine des Chézeaux and the 2023 vintage will see the first wines made by him from the estate (under a name that remains to be confirmed). The acquisition brought some prime vineyards, including Griotte-Chambertin, Chambertin, Clos Saint-Denis and Lavaux-Saint-Jacques.  Duroché: The 2023 will be the first vintage of a new Corton from Duroché (half a hectare in Corton Rognet). Technically it is négoce, but is domaine in all but name as they are farming the site themselves.  Olivier Bernstein: Although the Bernstein team has long been farming organically, the 2023 vintage is the first on their path to official certification.  Bouchard Père & Fils: Since Artémis Domaines (the Pinault family of Ch. Latour) purchased the company in 2022, Bouchard has been winding down their négoce operation and the 2023 vintage will be the last for the final few négoce wines, with the range domaine-only from 2024.   What we know so far about Burgundy 2023  A relatively uneventful growing season with a heatwave during harvest  A plentiful crop of good-quality approachable reds and whites  Alcohol levels are average for the region, between 12 and 13.5%  The whites expected to be particularly strong, combining richness and good levels of acidity  The reds seem juicier in style, destined to drink well in their youth and for the medium term  A vintage where producer decisions rather than site seem to have dictated the style of the wines   Keep your eyes peeled for further coverage of the Burgundy 2023 in the coming weeks. In the meantime, browse all available Burgundy 2023. 

Next month our team will be heading out to Burgundy to taste and dig into the 2023 vintage. Ahead of our full report and as the first wines are released en primeur, here’s everything we know so far

Ahead of our full report on Burgundy 2023, here’s everything we know about the vintage, the growing season and the wines produced

A first look at the Burgundy 2023 vintage

Burgundy 2023: first look

Chris Phelps never really meant to start his own winery. But fate had other plans.  Wine had always been part of life, just in the background. Growing up in Livermore, east of San Francisco, Phelps’s parents would buy a ton of grapes from Napa or Sonoma, and make wine each year for themselves. Phelps even dug out a cellar by hand for them as a teenager. Nevertheless, when he set off for UC Davis, it wasn’t to study wine, but medicine. To pay for university, he took a job as a firefighter in Idaho (“kind of scary but super fun,” he tells me). By chance, he met a wine-geek friend, one who eventually convinced him to switch from pre-med to oenology. At Davis, he happened upon Alain Bertrand – one of the first scientists to use gas chromatography to delineate the different aromatic compounds in wine. The Frenchman didn’t speak much English, and Phelps spoke French – so they ended up becoming friends. Bertrand suggested Phelps attend the University of Bordeaux for a year after graduation. There, Phelps tells me, everything “started to fall into place”. Until then, wine had been intellectually interesting – but, during his time in France, it became much more.   There, another professor pushed him to apply for an internship – just in time for the 1982 harvest, a vintage that would turn out to be legendary. He already had offers from both Ch. Simon (Barsac) and Ch. Beauregard, but then was given the opportunity to interview with JP Moueix (of Pétrus). Unusually Christian Moueix insisted on joining the interview himself, alongside winemaker Jean-Claude Berrouet, and promptly gave him the job. The confident young American, however, said he’d think about it – and set off for a holiday in the south of France with his fiancée. Little did he know that Moueix had just bought a swathe of vineyard in Napa – and was planning for the future.  A few weeks later, Phelps was in Nice and bought three postcards from the Chagall museum – ready to make his decision about the three possible roads that lay ahead of him. He decided to take the position at Moueix, posted his rejections and acceptance, and carried on with his holiday. But, as harvest time approached, Phelps hadn’t heard anything back. He called Berrouet – only to find out that the French postal service had let him down, and the job at Pétrus had been given to someone else. It seemed like his luck had run out, but Berrouet said he might have another idea and would call him back in a few days.   While Berrouet couldn’t offer him anything as prestigious as Pétrus, he found Phelps a job at Ch. des Laurets in Puisseguin-Saint-Emilion – but he wouldn’t just be an intern, he’d be running everything. It was, Phelps said, a “trial by fire”, especially given his only hands-on experience to date had been six months at Louis Martini. He worked non-stop with just one cellar hand to help during the day, and managed to make it through the season.   When the wines were safely in barrel, he went to dinner at Christian Moueix’s house – where, sipping Champagne in the library, Moueix told Phelps about his plans for his Napa project, Dominus – and asked if he’d be the winemaker. “Of course, I said no,” Phelps tells me – recalling how the Frenchman opposite visibly sputtered at the American’s cheek (again). Phelps said he needed more money to live in Napa (and support his bride-to-be) – and more experience. Amazingly, Moueix agreed to let him start from 1984, given the 1983 vintage was set to be just a handful of experimental barrels, and to a pay rise. Off Phelps went, working around California and wintering at Pétrus before returning to lead the team at Dominus.   “We figured it out as we went along,” Phelps says, looking back on the early days of what is now one of Napa’s most prestigious estates. Today they might have the iconic Herzog & De Meuron winery, but things were much more rustic at the beginning – with a small team and little infrastructure. Phelps eventually moved on, joining Caymus in 1996 – but it’s what started happening after-hours, around his day job, that is interesting.  In 1990, Phelps met Larry Bettinelli at a Christian men’s retreat, and hit it off. It was only when they met up for lunch later that they realised they were both in the wine business, with Bettinelli a fifth-generation farmer who was growing grapes. Bettinelli wanted his vineyards to be the best in the valley – but he needed feedback on the fruit so that he could adapt his viticulture. He and Phelps hatched a plan: each year, Bettinelli would give Phelps a ton of fruit, trialling different clones, rootstocks, vine spacing and trellising, harvest methods, and Phelps would make a wine with it. The project was purely intellectual, so the two families drunk the wine themselves, and it also started being used as the altar wine at Phelps’s church (a much higher-grade communion offering than most). For two decades, they kept making tiny batches of their first-class “homebrew”, and Bettinelli became one of the valley’s best growers, working with an increasing number of sites around Napa.  Destiny seemed to abandon all subtlety in 2005. Phelps was hiking through the Sierra Nevada, leading a Scouts expedition, when they were struck by lightning. Two of the group died and Phelps was knocked unconscious. Unsurprisingly, it shook Phelps to the core. “Life is our most precious gift,” he says, “and if we use wine appropriately, it can enhance our lives.”  Two years later, Phelps was on top of a tank that had just been filled with crushed fruit from a relatively new Bettinelli site – and the smell was intoxicating. Following pure impulse, Phelps asked if he could – rather unconventionally – buy the tank’s contents, and Bettinelli said yes. Ad Vivum – inspired by the Latin “vinum” for wine and “vivere” to live, combined with “ad” which translates as “to” or “towards” – was born.  The vineyard was Sleeping Lady (previously Reese), the southernmost vineyard in Yountville, at the foot of the Mayacamas and on the southern end of the valley’s famous bench. There’s a flow of underground water that feeds a creek, with sufficient clay under the gravel and sand to retain water during the dry summer – and has, in Phelps’s words, a “beautiful ability” to self-regulate. Various other producers work with the vineyard, but his two blocks (representing a mere 1.5 acres) are right at the top of the vineyard, below a steep slope that aids the flow of cool air through the site at night. For him there was something special about these plots – producing fruit and wine with what Phelps describes as a “grace note”; it’s a whisper of something that takes the wine to the next level.  In a good year, production for Ad Vivum is 450 cases – but Phelps isn’t looking to grow. He makes one wine, from one site – and that’s the way he wants it to be. The wine is undoubtedly informed by his Franco-American roots, with an elegance, freshness and savoury structure that complements the plush Napa style. As he says, “I try to build wines that speak for themselves.”  Phelps’s – and Ad Vivum’s – story is one of happenstance. Or is it? With a man as devout as Phelps, it seems hard for anyone to believe it’s all an accident – and as Phelps himself says, looking back, it feels perhaps like it’s all part of a master plan.  Explore all current listings of Ad Vivum or read more about California 

Ad Vivum is a boutique Napa project from Chris Phelps. Sophie Thorpe spoke to him about how twists of fate saw him go from aspiring medic to star winemaker at the likes of Dominus, Caymus – and now his own label

Ad Vivum is a boutique Napa wine label from Chris Phelps. We spoke to the ex Dominus and Caymus winemaker about his journey – and its twists of fate

Discover Chris Phelps’s wine Ad Vivum, Napa

Divine intervention: Ad Vivum

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