There are times when you put a question to a winemaker and he puffs out his cheeks and rubs his chin and you know he’s thinking, ‘Journalists.’ When I ask Promontory’s David Cilli what exactly is meant by ‘interpretation of terroir’, he courteously describes the process of trying to get the wine to reflect the character of the land. But he gives the impression my question was like quizzing Monet on how he got his effects. If you don’t get it, you probably won’t. The character of Promontory, on the day I visit, is quite something. It’s early May and the rain, which has been falling steadily all night, has turned to a lashing downpour that has raindrops bouncing six inches off the windscreen. We’re in a jeep piloted by winegrowing director Cory Empting and since turning off the main road we’ve been climbing steadily through dripping stands of oak with pocket-handkerchief vineyards between them. ‘Shall we stay in the car?’ asks Empting. ‘If we could,’ Will Harlan suggests from the back seat. I’m here with Empting, Cilli and Harlan. Bill Harlan has appeared briefly but I don’t see him again until we sit down to taste. He formally handed over control of Harlan Estate, Promontory, Bond and The Mascot in 2021, appointing 37-year-old Will managing director. Cilli (44) arrived in 2012 and is in charge of vineyard and winemaking at Promontory. Promontory is an 840-acre fastness, a deep valley folded into the foothills of Mount Veeder, on the west side of the Napa Valley. From the highway, you think the looming ridge you’re looking at is the edge of Sonoma. But there’s another ridge beyond and between them this interesting domain. It’s remote, even by Napa standards (contrary to opinion, there are plenty of wild spaces in the county). The ultra-refined French Laundry is a couple of miles away but it might be in Wisconsin for all the relevance it has up here. Bill Harlan had come upon it hiking in the 1980s. ‘I used the Carmelite monastery [we’d passed it on the way up] as a base and just started climbing’. There were no vines but he was intrigued by its seclusion. It might be possible vineland for the Napa project he had in mind. In the end, Harlan Estate was founded less than a mile to the north but for 25 years Harlan kept the idea of that parcel tucked under his hat (he never mentioned it, Will says) before it came on the market in 2007 and he snapped it up. "Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir" The owner – the Harlans don’t reveal who that is – had planted 80-odd acres of Cabernet Sauvignon. It was neglected, the vines overgrown. Trees had been felled and never collected. ‘It was a mess,’ Will says. ‘It looked like a logging operation.’ But it is magnificent. Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir. The whole estate is thickly forested, the vines often shaded on three sides. An old drovers’ road, running through the woods, will suddenly open out on a wide vista of vineyard and scree. Everything is deeply, lushly green in the steadily falling spring rain. The geology of the land is unusual, in that it rests on two distinct fault lines and consists of all three soil types that are found in Napa: volcanic, sedimentary and metamorphic. ‘You get all three in the same soil pit,’ Cilli notes. This, combined with the wild variation in aspect and the microclimate of the valley-within-a-valley, gives credence to Harlan’s claims that this part of Napa is like nowhere else in California. When the celebrated soil scientists Claude and Lydia Bourguignon came, they found the experience ‘novel’. Cilli said he fell in love with Promontory at first sight. It reminded him, in part, of his native Tuscany, but it was the wildness that captivated him, ‘I love that character that you can see in the wines.’ He said it was probably ‘the only project that could keep me in the valley.’ You get the impression none of them can quite believe their luck. ‘It somehow redefined what looks beautiful,’ Will says. It also redefined their ideas of winemaking. He goes on: ‘We were used to control. Harlan in the 1990s was obsessed with organisation and uniformity but Promontory was wild.’ The theme of wildness recurs. Harvest times are key to ‘find a way for it to come through,’ Will says. Empting: ‘Pick too late and you lose the ruggedness.’ Ageing, in the magnificent Howard Backen-designed chai, is all in Stockinger Austrian oak barrels ranging in size from 10,000 to 46,000 litres, for up to 36 months. ‘The fine-yet-tight tannins required longer barrel-ageing but [we] didn’t want the wine to be overpowered by new oak’. It’s a constant process of refinement and improvement – ‘we learn something new each season’. Empting: ‘It has blown every expectation out of the water. We were excited and we were scared. We didn’t know what this beast would be. Our learning curve has been very steep, it remains very steep. At least now we’re starting to get our arms around it but at the beginning, it was like: God, we cannot figure this thing out.” "I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness" You have to remember we’re talking about winemaking here, not Wittgenstein. But ‘interpretation of terroir’, if it’s to mean anything at all, should be taken seriously. I’ve seen vineland all over the world – rock-strewn fields in the Andean foothills, rainless Spanish deserts – but I’ve never seen anything like Promontory. Were I to be tasked with bottling the soul of that vineyard, I’d reach for metaphor as well. And so we come to the missing shade of blue. This is the concept propounded by the 18th-century philosopher David Hume, that an idea can be formulated without a previous sensory impression to give rise to it. He asked, Could a shade of blue missing from a spectrum be imagined by an observer? Harlan says (with a smile – he does have a degree in philosophy) that Promontory is the missing shade of red. ‘Until you’ve seen and experienced it, you don’t know that it’s missing. And so for us this was that final piece. The piece that wasn’t there that we had the opportunity to understand and try to translate into the wine.’ The next morning, in gorgeous May sunshine, we gather to taste. It’s almost the same group, though smaller, that did the mighty vertical of Harlan estate from magnum in 2020. Bill Harlan is there (he sweetly thanks the team for allowing him to taste, saying it’s the first full vertical of Promontory he’s ever done), Will, Empting, Cilli and the journalist Elaine Brown. We wonder, at the end, if there is thread that runs through the wines. In my notes the words ‘deceptively light’ recur, as do ‘structure’ and ‘stone’. Reaching for metaphor again, Will Harlan compares the structure of the 2016 to cathedral stone, which has ‘both weight and lightness. It’s intricately carved and light filters through the windows.’ I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness. Will Harlan calls this vintage an ‘inflection point’ and notes how the tannins are the ‘main differentiators’. Yes, agrees Cilli, ‘and because of the character of levity and lift, we have to be precise with the tannins.’ The younger vintages have an astonishing latent energy, tannins under tight rein, aromas bursting, the fruit compacted. Brown and I were struck not by the sophistication of these wines but by their honesty. Brown WhatsApped me later. ‘Promontory is the most transparent to place. The wines are impressively well crafted and elegant while still offering an almost wild or primal complex of flavours.’ "The wines are unmistakeably Californian but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa" ‘How do we take wine from a wilderness and have sophistication?’ Will asked. It’s a great question – with their resources, the Harlans could do anything they liked with Promontory. After all, they have to make a wine that will please their audience. But this was so unexpected. The tasting revealed a keen focus on the land and the vintage. The difference between the years was often marked – the challenge of 2015 for example showed in the wine – yet we could see that common thread running through, even as the wines increased in elegance. And what of Will’s quest for the missing shade of red? The wines are unmistakeably Californian – that splendid 2017 could come from nowhere else – but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa, which is quite a claim, in the world’s most cultivated wine region. Perhaps the last word should go to Bill Harlan, who started the whole thing. He speaks hardly at all during the tasting, his Old Testament face giving little away. At the end of the morning, he talks of his fascination with the ‘ongoing discovery’ of the project. The wines have character, layers and depth, he says, and – by way of praising their authenticity – he notes, ‘You never know what’s coming next.’

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites, with a vertical tasting of 14 vintages revealing the wild beauty, elegance and remarkable evolution of its wines.

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites.

Wildness captured: tasting 14 vintages of Promontory

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  

The beauty of Bordeaux wines is that each vintage follows the next, yet no two are ever alike. Reading back over my notes on the 2025 vintage, one thing becomes clear: one could almost write the exact opposite of 2024. In 2024, excessive rainfall during ripening forced some châteaux to delay their harvests with great care. In 2025, the situation was reversed: in the vineyards, one could almost imagine rain dances, pleading with Mother Nature to water the parched soils. Drought defines the vintage. Opposite in their development, the two vintages nevertheless converge on one point: volume. 2025 stands as the smallest vintage since 1991 – a statement that already applied to 2024. In Bordeaux, a pressing question now arises: can great, even very great vintages – as 2025 appears to be – still coexist with generous yields, as in 2016? Let us remain optimistic. 2025 is a beautiful vintage, which comes as a relief for the entire industry. Yet a deeper question lingers: does “normal” still exist in viticulture in an era of climate disruption? What was the biggest challenge for winegrowers in 2025? Eric Boissenot: Overall, the year was fairly easy from a vineyard perspective: no major disease pressure, low mildew risk, and the vines coped well with the drought—likely even better than in 2022. Thomas Duclos: Most likely, the biggest challenge was staying calm and level-headed towards the end of the growing cycle, which saw a heatwave around mid-August followed by rainfall in early September. Julien Viaud: With hindsight, this vintage was much easier than others. Spring and summer conditions were generally favourable. The greater challenge came in the cellar, where it was essential to manage the richness of the material. The fruit was abundant and concentrated, and the winemaker’s role was to be precise, measured, and restrained in order to express the very best the grapes had to offer. Could you share a few thoughts on the 2025 yields? Eric Boissenot: Yields were low, even very low. This was due, on the one hand, to limited floral initiation (resulting in fewer bunches), and on the other hand to small berry size at harvest (across all grape varieties), caused by the low rainfall throughout the vintage. Thomas Duclos: The 2025 vintage was affected by a low number of bunches—a direct consequence of the 2024 conditions (poor floral induction) combined with a dry growing season. The result is therefore low yields. Julien Viaud: Yields in 2025 were not high, mainly for physiological reasons. The issue is that both the size and number of bunches—determined the previous year within the buds—were limited from the outset. The potential was therefore already constrained. How would you describe the style of the 2025 vintage? Eric Boissenot: First of all, it is a very early vintage, shaped by a warm and dry climate. It then benefited from rainfall in late August and early September, which helped the vines manage water stress. As a result, alcohol levels remain moderate (around 13–13.5% vol) for a warm year. While it shows a warm and very ripe character, it also retains a classic, distinctly Bordeaux style that is both balanced and highly drinkable. Thomas Duclos: 2025 is a Bordeaux vintage shaped by climate change. Julien Viaud: It is a sunny vintage, but not “solar” in the sense that it allowed for ripe grapes full of fruit expression, without excessive sugar (and therefore alcohol), and without a loss of acidity (and thus freshness). It is an approachable, generous, and charming vintage, with wines bursting with aromas and delivering real pleasure. If you had to sum up 2025 in one word or a short phrase, what would you choose? Eric Boissenot: High density Thomas Duclos: Futuristic Julien Viaud: Intense and fast-paced Conclusions Reds: Well-balanced wines, showing fine concentration and the freshness so characteristic of Bordeaux—perhaps, as Julien Viaud suggests, a style the world might envy. They retain a solid yet never heavy tannic structure, resulting in wines that are both vibrant and structured. A beautiful vintage, even exceptional in certain cases. Whites: The first grapes arrived at the cellar as early as August 11. The wines are highly expressive, with good mid-palate weight and a certain creaminess. They also stand out for their freshness, which brings energy and lift. Sweet wines: When the rains came in late August / early September, the grapes were in excellent health, allowing Botrytis cinerea to develop evenly. The style is rather opulent, with lovely complexity. Bordeaux 2025 overview: A historically low-yield vintage, the smallest since 1991. A prolonged heatwave period, exceeding those of 2003 and 2022. Marked drought throughout the summer, enhancing grape concentration. Decisive rainfall at the end of August / beginning of September, helping to balance ripeness. Exceptionally early harvest, among the earliest ever recorded. Moderate alcohol levels, thanks to day/night temperature variation and late August / early September rainfall. Low pH levels, bringing freshness and tension to the wines. An extreme vintage in climate, yet precise and balanced in the glass. Rarity, freshness, and control: 2025 ticks all the boxes of a great modern Bordeaux. About Inside La Place Inside La Place is a specialist newsletter published by Roland Coiffe & Associés, offering expert commentary, vintage analysis and insider perspectives from across the Place de Bordeaux. Bordeaux 2025 Each spring, the Bordeaux En Primeur campaign gives collectors the opportunity to secure the new vintage before bottling – follow Bordeaux 2025 with FINE+RARE as our team travels to Bordeaux next week, sharing insights, producer highlights and release alerts. Explore now.

Written by Gerda Beziade of négociant Roland Coiffe & Associés, this Inside La Place piece explores the Bordeaux 2025 vintage – one of the smallest in decades – combining her analysis with insights from leading oenologists Eric Boissenot, Thomas Duclos and Julien Viaud.

Gerda Beziade explores Bordeaux 2025, with insights from leading oenologists on style, yields and quality.

Inside La Place: Bordeaux 2025 Vintage Insights 

Inside La Place: Bordeaux 2025

Every now and then, the word ‘singularity’ is used to describe a particular wine that stands apart, for whatever reason, from other wines of its type. But just what is singularity, and how can wine express it? Wine writer Tamlyn Currin investigates.

What makes a wine truly singular? Tamlyn Currin explores the rare bottles that defy convention and challenge the rules of the wine world.

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

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

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

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

Raymond Blake on the Côte d'Or

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

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

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

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

Xiao-Li Meng, Whipple V. N. Jones Professor of Statistics at Harvard and Founding Editor-in-Chief of Harvard Data Science Review, was inspired by a student to combine wine and statistics—leading to insights far beyond what they ever expected.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Seeking simplicity in statistics, complexity in wine, and everything else in fortune cookies 

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

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

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

Burgundy 2024 – what the critics are saying

Burgundy 2024: the critics’ verdict

Savage Grace

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

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

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

History

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

In transit

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

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

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

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

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

This is the current estimated market value for this item.

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

Updates all unlisted wines to current market price.

Set all at market

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

My cellar

Name

Net price

New portfolio available

New portfolio

You do not have any invoices at this time.

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

On sale

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

Overview

shows any items that are currently awaiting user action.

Pending

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

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

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

The number of cases you wish to place on sale

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

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

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

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

Total estimated value*'

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

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

Title

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

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

Profile

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

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

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

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

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

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