When Au Bon Climat founder Jim Clendenen unexpectedly passed away on 15th May 2021, aged just 68, there was an outpouring of sorrow. FONDATA’s Gavin Lucas considers how the one-of-a-kind bon vivant shaped Santa Barbara and California’s wine scene today

Gavin Lucas looks back on the life and times of Jim Clendenen, California’s original wild boy and a pioneer of fine Chardonnay and Pinot Noir in Santa Barbara

The legacy of Jim Clendenen – Au Bon Climat

The legacy of Au Bon Climat’s Jim Clendenen

The knife is a descendant of the sword, that emblematic and destructive weapon of war. We learn to respect it from an early age. Though powerful and dangerous, this day-to-day working tool is the one item in the culinary arsenal used to cut flesh in the preparation of food. Fingal Ferguson of the renowned Gubbeen cheese family in Ireland, and maker of world-class knives, remembers his mother Giana in the early days of his parents’ farmhouse cheese revival in the 1970s, cutting the curds with her grandfather’s dressage sword on the side of the Aga. It was not, however, this splendid, dramatic rapier that triggered his passion for the craft, but a hobby that grew out of butchering. Ferguson’s handsome handcrafted knives, which he started making 20 years ago, come in all shapes and sizes from small paring knives to cleavers, and have acquired cult status at home and abroad. They are coveted by those who love cooking – from domestic cooks to celebrity chefs – and those who value craftsmanship and beauty, not to speak of functionality, in the tools they use. His collection, full of character, ranges from high quality satin hand-finished steel to the higher end Damascus patterned blades with handles carved from maple, beech, chestnut, bog oak, spalted poplar, alder, Micarta (a composite), carbon fibre, buffalo horn and, more unconventionally, compressed rock-hard Donegal tweed, and gemstone turquoise.  These knives are much in demand – at one point in 2017 he had 980 people on the waiting list. Francis Mallmann – the world-renowned Argentinian, Michelin-trained, Patagonia-loving chef famous for open fire cooking – declared Ferguson’s knives the best, and ordered a set of 22, one for each of the tasks in his kitchen. “He is one of my heroes as I love cooking with fire,” Ferguson reveals when we meet in his workshop on the family farm not far from the fishing village of Schull in west Cork, one sunny September morning. Located far out on the most south-westerly tip of Ireland, nestled beneath Mount Gabriel with breathtaking views across the Atlantic to Fastnet Lighthouse, Coney Island and Cape Clear, Gubbeen (which means little bite) is a 250-acre coastal farm with a 140-strong cheesemaking herd of Friesian, Holstein, Jersey and Kerry cows that graze peacefully in the surrounding fields. It is here Ferguson grew up and became in turn a farmer, cheesemaker, butcher, charcuterie-maker, knifemaker, husband and father.  “I was two and a half when mum and dad started making cheese, so I grew up with it. The farm is the backbone of everything we do, and you are either mucking about in the yard or putting on whites to clean the cheese,” he says with a smile. Tousle-haired, dressed in a bleu de travail workman’s jacket, followed by his border terrier, Mouche, he shows me around the farm where the cheesemaking is in progress, and to a barn piled high with straw bales at the entrance to his workshop. Flocks of geese and Barbary ducks patrol the yard, undisturbed. A nifty Jack Russell called Sunny makes an occasional appearance, checking out newcomers.   Grounded, thoughtful, practical and creative, Ferguson comes from pedigree stock on both sides of the family. His father Tom was in his twenties when he inherited the farm, run by four generations of resourceful Fergusons, including his great-grandfather who introduced an innovative and successful milking system in the 1880s that benefitted the whole area. Tom’s mother Mary was a founding member of the Irish Countrywomen’s Association and ran one of Ireland’s first farm guesthouses.  Tom met Giana Luke – then in her twenties, of Austro-Hungarian ancestry, and daughter of the playwright Peter Luke – when she was visiting an uncle, a writer living in Inish Beg beyond Baltimore. “I was drifting around with a dog and a tent,” she later recalled. The pair fell in love, married in 1975 and started their life together. “She was a dreamer with a fascinating culinary background, and he was a west Cork farmer and a doer. Opposites attract,” Fingal smiles, adding that his own marriage to Dubliner Ciara Rogerson, a high-powered, Oxford-educated consultant statistician, carries on the family tradition.   Giana’s grandfather, hugely influential in her love and appreciation of food, was the Eton-educated Sir Harry Luke who spent 40 years in the British Colonial Service and dined for England in far flung places like Aleppo, Tonga, Tbilisi, Sierra Leone, Transcaucasia (present day Georgia), Armenia and Azerbaijan. His 1954 book, The Tenth Muse: A Gourmet’s Compendium, is a tour de force of descriptions of the culinary cultures he encountered on his extensive travels. Fingal’s own name he attributes to his parents’ love of Oscar Wilde whose middle name was Fingal – indeed one of his own five children is called Oscar. Memories of growing up between west Cork and occasional trips to his grandfather’s house in Jimena de la Frontera, in Andalusía, Spain, were huge influences: “being immersed in Spanish food and those long tables and robust flavours and if there was no garlic, there was no menu. That Spanish influence led us to preserve food with nothing left to waste. Food preservation was logical – we either share, swap or preserve,” explains Fingal whose self-built smokehouse was a pioneering step in establishing the farm’s charcuterie business. A strong work ethic is part of the Ferguson dynamic. “I was never pushed or forced into farming,” he says. At the Quaker school in Newtown in Waterford where he was educated, “if you were crap at something you were allowed to fail, but you had to compensate somewhere else and I was drawn to hands-on learning like woodwork because I love making things and hate having nothing to do. I can take most machines apart and put them back together again.” Having become the farm’s butcher, he got into knives, and with a family connected to food, needed to learn how to sharpen the tool of his trade properly. After school, when he spent some time in New Zealand “milking 800 cows on the North Island”, he made his first knife, then did a knifemaking and bladesmith workshop with Owen Bush & Bushfire Forge in the UK. “But my real inspiration,” Ferguson reveals, “was the knifemaker Rory Conner up the road here in Ballylickey who had trained with Bob Loveless in the US, one of the world’s top knifemakers. We used to contact Rory for knives for special occasions, for wedding presents – he is a real craftsman. All this led to knifemaking becoming my hobby.” In the workshop furnished with machinery, grinders, belts and assorted tools, Ferguson gives me a lesson in knifemaking, explaining that it has two essential parts – the metallurgy “taking the steel to make a blade and how different steels make different things. And the second part is the handle which can be classic or crazy – we live our personalities in our things, so you can have a carbon steel knife with a jet-black bog oak handle sitting right next to a shiny Damascus steel knife with a vibrant multicoloured handle.” Strangely, most of the parts of the knife are named after parts of the body – the belly, the throat, the cheek, the heel and the spine. Sheets of steel of different types are stacked in a corner of the workshop. The painstaking method of making a knife begins, Ferguson carefully explains, when suitable steel is cut and drilled into the shape of the blade, and he shows me the design of the blade marked out on the steel. “It then goes into a kiln for a short specific period at temperatures as high as 1,080ºC depending on the type or process. It is at these temperatures where the magic of metallurgy takes place and we can transform it from soft into hard steel. It is then quenched or cooled rapidly as a key part of the process. After some little adventures with the tempering cycles which balance the hardness and makes the knife more useable, it is ready to become a blade, ready for more grinding and thinning out, defining the edge and then polishing ready for the handle.” Demanding skill and precision, “you could be hours making a knife – and the level of obsession will determine the outcome,” he adds. The level of workmanship in a knife can, in turn, inspire a reverence that affects how its owner wields it. Some of Ferguson’s knives are made from Damascus pattern welded steel which adds an eye-catching beauty when polished and etched – these steels can be outsourced or, as he explains, makers can go through the lengthy, highly skilled and more advanced process that involves more than 60 layers of lamination and that can take years to master. Japanese knifemakers, in particular, have embraced these skills, drawing on Japan’s great historical swordsmithing tradition; when the Samurai were forbidden to carry weapons, their swordmakers turned their craftsmanship to making cutlery instead. “One of the interesting psychological things about a Japanese-influenced knife, with its hidden tang design, is that you might treat the knife differently, use it differently,” says Ferguson. “Images will be conjured up of the precise, thoughtful and accurate knife skills of the Japanese.” In some of his work, he draws on such influences to make knives based around thinner edge geometry and around more precise use. “Western knives tend to be sturdier for more general use.”  Ferguson believes that “a knife is either practical or emotional. You can have a Damascus steel knife, beautiful to look at, but another with a broken handle may be your go-to knife. Knifemaking has to do with weight, balance, edge geometry and geometry. A knife goes through the ultimate form of abuse – every day it is wet and dry. It might be left on top of the cooker. There is a knife for every job in the world and that’s what makes our life so interesting. With all these different knives there is an element of creativity that allows for specialisation and so many elements that one can get obsessed about. One of the easiest knives for a cook to use, with an edge like a razor blade and a light handle, can be the first knife to break if used to cut up bones, so the boundaries and capabilities are endless.” His views on popular TV shows about knifemaking are interesting. “Forged in Fire is not aimed at knifemakers, just as MasterChef is not for chefs. These are shows for lay people that give you a little insight wrapped in drama, and help them learn about your world. The most important process is the attention to detail.”  He stores materials for the handles in a disused kiln and describes how they are attached to the blade with Loveless bolts. “These countersink nuts into the hole in the handle so as you tighten them, they become like a clamp. The bolster area is the most vulnerable area of the knife, so you are strengthening the bolt hole at its weakest point.” Back at his house – a beautiful building dressed in stone from Mount Gabriel, with mesmerising views of the sea – Ferguson keeps the finished knives in wooden boxes in an upstairs room away from the chaos of children’s toys and a busy kitchen downstairs. This is where orders are dispatched, packaged in heavy-duty canvas rolls, tied in a similar fashion to his charcuterie netting, and stamped with his logo: crossed knives that form the shape of a capital F. The appeal of Ferguson’s knives is stunningly obvious. But despite huge demand, his output isn’t set to increase any time soon. “After one of my knives became a viral sensation on social media, I had more than a thousand people wanting it, so I could spend the rest of my life making them. But the knifemaking side of the business has become a way in which I can channel my creativity.”  Ferguson invests a range of emotional energies into the knives he makes, each of which is a unique creation. “You can be gung-ho and vent if you are tired or emotional – or, if in a calm mood, you can be precise and careful. There is also a point where you can cut yourself or break the knife, so there is room and a role for every state of mind.” It is a delicate balance, and he feels blessed in that people want these knives, but they are not something that can be mass produced.  His profile has led to some odd demands. He has been asked for knives with handles made from the wood of a sentimental apple tree, or to be bejewelled with precious gems. He’s even been asked to work gold into the process of making a blade. “You can go to extreme lengths, and part of me wants the knives I make to go up on a wall and be displayed. You can have your haute couture of knives, and indeed the ones I’ve done now are very different; there is an evolution because I’m part of a community of knifemakers. Another part of me wants to see my knives on family tables being used every day.” While he is happy to work to specific requests from his clients, Ferguson is a man in tune with the fluidity of process, and the never-ending learning curve. “You can spend your life becoming a cheesemaker, gardener, farmer, making really good silage for the cows, but these are adaptable moving targets and as soon as you feel you know everything, you realise how much you don’t know – it is a process of continual learning and that’s how food led to the knives. The handmade knife is a tool that makes sense to a cook like a Mont Blanc pen to a writer. Carpenters respect their chisels. You don’t need to buy a handmade knife unless it is something that brings you pleasure. But you want people to enjoy the knife for what it is. Rory (Conner) always said that a good knife should be recognisable in the pitch dark – that you should know which way is up.” This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Fashion editor and author Deirdre McQuillan meets Fingal Ferguson to find out how butchery inspired him to become a knifemaker.


FONDATA: A Descendant of the Sword

A Descendant of the Sword 

As perhaps befits a man on the brink of his 9th decade, Bill Harlan measures time not in weeks, months or even years, but decades, half-centuries, centuries. It seems natural, sitting as we are among the grand oak fermenters at Harlan, having finished a tasting of 27 vintages of this most renowned of wines, to look at the broad sweep of time both forward and back. 
Harlan, who turns 80 in September, has talked before about his “200-year plan” for the great Napa estate. “This is a work in progress. If you have a long-term plan it makes short-term decisions easier – is this the best decision for the long term? So we ask, how many times a century will we be replanting? Then interplanting of rows and vines – should that be every 40 years or every 50 years?” 
Longevity has always been the plan, ever since 1984, when Harlan, Ric Forman and David Abreu identified six acres of hillside above Oakville as land with the potential to make first-class wine. It was a heavily wooded parcel, chiefly volcanic and sedimentary soil bedrock, which over time would be expanded to the 100ha (240 acre) horse-shoe of ridge, shallow valley and mountainside, with aspects to all points of the compass, that the winery sits on today. To stand on the terrace and look east over Napa is to get a sense of the extraordinary vastness and beauty of the land. Harlan's goal is simple: “We need to know how better to express the character of the property.” The soil is key, of course, but there’s a certain poetry to this slight, grizzled adventurer (something of a daredevil in his youth, he founded the Pacific Union real estate company in 1984 and went on to develop upscale resort Meadowood and co-found Merryvale winery before realising his dream in Harlan Estate. He’s said to be a ferocious negotiator. “You wouldn’t want to get into a poker game with him,” one observer has noted). “Most of the estate is wild land. You still have the animals, the fresh smell of the air, the forest floor. All these things make up the character of the wines.” 
Harlan has no intention of expanding the 16ha (40 acres) vineyard, which produces an average 2,000 bottles a year – just making it “better, and stronger”. He considers that the period of “stabilising” is over, and they are now into a process of “establishing”. 
It’s a subtle difference, and when Harlan hands over full responsibility to his son Will and daughter Amanda later this year (“an 80-year-old oughtn’t to be running anything”), they will have decades of experience to draw on. Bob Levy, the director of winegrowing, joined full-time in 1990, winemaker Cory Empting has been there 20 years, estate director Don Weaver since 1986 – two generations of treading the dirt. This is not to mention the “vinemasters” – veteran vineyard workers who are given total responsibility for sections of vineyard, in order to “get to know each vine,” as Harlan puts it. “The continuity is understanding the land.” 
The tasting took place at a long table in the fermentation room at Harlan Estate in early March 2020. As well as Bill and Will Harlan, Levy, Empting and Weaver were present, Harlan educator Kelli White, Jamie Ritchie, head of Sotheby’s fine wine, Jim Walker (a long-standing Harlan collector) and critic Elaine Chukan Brown. The vintages were tasted young to old, 2016 to 1990, in three flights of nine wines. Harlan talked of a work in progress: this was to see it in operation, a clear progression as vines get older, the estate increases in size and parcel selection gets more targeted. Today a blending session comprises up to 150 wines, taken from multiple different vineyard samples, tanks and barrels. This was, without doubt, one of the signature tastings of my career. These are some of the most expensive and sought-after wines in the world, and to spend a day tasting them – out of magnum – was a remarkable experience. This is not to say that the wines were approached with undue reverence. Harlan, his longstanding team, and the few guests examined each flight with concentration but not awe. The Harlan style runs through the vintages, getting stronger towards the present. The finest wines are brightly perfumed in youth and mellowing to dried petals and dried herb as they age; there is earth, blue fruit ageing to dark, a certain savouriness and sometimes an animal tang (“most of the estate is wild land”).  Another hallmark is understated energy, a pure and clear line that runs through each wine and through the decades. The wines have weight and heft – you know where you are with them – but only once was alcohol, or over-ripeness, mentioned. There is marked vintage variation – the notoriously cool and wet 2011, or the famously warm 1997, for example, are unmistakable. From Bordeaux to Napa, wines of great renown are sometimes described as “smart”, which means they are in some way tailored; they may be delicious, but they are made with an audience in mind. Harlan Estate doesn’t give that impression: you rather understand that here is a winemaker and a team searching for an interpretation of a terroir that is not fixed but changing as the vines age. Bill Harlan returns to this theme again and again. He talks of having “captured” the land, of its protean nature – “as the roots go deeper, the shapes of your blocks move and evolve like amoebas. It’s organic – you don’t lay out the blocks for good, you learn how they change, by being out there in the field.” As the land changes so do its stewards. The official handover to the next generation is imminent and Harlan is happy. “Everything seems to be in place,” he says. “They’ve never done this before, and I’ve never done it before, but it’s working well.” Tasting notes NB: All wines are Bordeaux blends of approximately 15% alcohol, with an average 75% Cabernet Sauvignon plus varying proportions of Merlot, Cabernet Franc and Petit Verdot.
Published with the kind permission of luxury wine, spirits and lifestyle brand Club Oenologique - an exclusive community for those who enjoy the rarer pleasures of life.  Read more about Harlan 

Earlier this year, one of Napa’s starriest names put on a vertical tasting of its entire 27 vintages for luxury wine, spirits and lifestyle magazine, Club Oenologique. Adam Lechmere reflects on the wines and hears from Bill Harlan as he prepares to hand over the reins to his children

Napa’s starriest names put on a vertical tasting of 27 vintages and we hear from Bill Harlan as he prepares to hand over the reins to his children

Three decades of Napa's Harlan Wine Estate

Three decades of Napa's Harlan Estate

“In more recent times The Glenturret has not been a brand name that is well known in whisky.” While few might refute this, they are not typically the first words you expect to hear from the mouth of the distillery’s Managing Director. “When the new owners took over, it was a unique opportunity to take this old, heritage brand that no one has ever heard of and reposition it without any of the baggage you normally get with repositioning older brands,” John Laurie adds. In 2019, Silvo Denz – owner of Chx Faugères in Saint-Emilion and Lafaurie-Peyraguey in Sauternes – bought a 50% stake in the Highland distillery via his Lalique Group for £15.5m. (Swiss entrepreneur Hansjörg Wyss bought the other 50% for an undisclosed sum.) This marked Denz’s first move into the whisky world and a huge moment for The Glenturret. The deal with The Edrington Group, who own The Macallan and Highland Park, included the distillery, the single malt brand and more than one million litres of maturing stock. In the intervening years, the brand once known as a component in blends and home of The Famous Grouse Experience has been on an oft-used-and-cliched “journey”. The team has grown, acquiring some big names along the way, the core range has been stripped back to basics, and all the fundamentals have been scrutinised. For the first nine months after former The Macallan Whisky Maker Bob Dalgarno joined The Glenturret, he was reportedly nowhere to be seen. After his induction, Dalgarno – chalk in hand and overalls-clad – barricaded himself in the warehouse. The industry legend spent month upon month scrawling on the casks, rolling barrels around and familiarising himself with his new pet project. For the self-professed “farm stock”, the prospect of joining a manually operated distillery after working at The Macallan for 30 years was a real thrill. Dalgarno could experiment and affect change. New contracts with local farmers to run barley trials have been set up and the cask-selection process has been extensively reviewed. He and Distillery Manager Ian Renwick are a formidable team. The duo spent months drilling into the stocks and assessing what worked well and didn’t. After this, two things were taken as read: the quality of the new-make was of utmost importance, and The Glenturret would stay a small, hand-operated distillery. “Other brands will use casks as their dominant flavour profile,” Laurie explains. “We use our new-make spirit. It’s the backbone of The Glenturret. You should be able to nose our new-make spirit and nose it at 30 years old and never lose that character.” The Glenturret new-make spirit is light and quite soft because of the long fermentation and slow distillation methods. In order to preserve this character and avoid railroading it, cask selection is key. This, according to Laurie, has been instrumental in 80% of The Glenturret’s maiden whiskies selling out in the first seven months. “We were really keen not to be the brand that just puts the same liquid in a shiny new bottle and charges a different price point for it,” the Managing Director says. That said, innovation – or, as Laurie prefers it called, experimentation – is high on the agenda at the Highland distillery. “It’s less scientific clean rooms and more overalls and a lot of incredibly long hours and hard work,” Laurie adds. Ostensibly, the culmination of the first stage of this experimentation is the 2020 series of releases, which includes the familiar TripleWood and a scattering of age statements. But look a little harder and the range is an adept exploration of refinement, questioning age, alcohol strength, refill casks and peat. The team has also not shied away from the issue of transparency – something that the whisky world has not always embraced. “We will tell people exactly what’s in our whisky; we won’t hide anything,” Laurie says. “If you want to know how old our non-age statement is then we will tell you. It’s all about the quality of the liquid for us.” In production terms, The Glenturret is considered small batch. As Brand Ambassador Jamie Morrison quaintly puts it, “At roughly 200,000 litres of alcohol per year, that’s a piece of plankton floating in the Pacific in relation to much bigger, more automated distilleries.” For Laurie, balancing genuine scarcity with a territory-by-territory approach will be instrumental to their success. “You want to explain to the consumer that when it sells out, it sells out. There is not going to be another one coming out the back of it. But also managing it to the point where it is not so hard to get that the consumer loses interest,” Laurie says. “We wanted to make sure everywhere we opened up we looked after as we grow. For The Glenturret to really work, it has to be sold in a location where somebody can take the time to tell the customer the story and understand what makes us different. I would rather they didn’t make the sale than make the wrong sale. “This distillery can’t put out any more than 500,000 litres of alcohol unless we started putting on extensions and changing the process completely,” Laurie says. “And there is absolutely no willingness from the ownership all the way down through the team here to do that. So, The Glenturret will reach that 500,000 litres of alcohol production level and stay there.” Morrison picks up the point: “Everything we do is truly small batch and that comes with its own set of challenges in terms of production, but it also makes us quite nimble which means we can afford to do small experimental runs of different barley. We can adjust fermentation times and adjust the run times of the stills quite easily. And that affords us opportunity to effectively have a play round and see what happens.” The words “small batch” and “limited” are often bandied about in the drinks world. In fact, The Glenturret is well-positioned on many fronts when it comes to buzzword bingo, but there is a sincerity in the mission here and a stellar line up of talent which will ultimately let the liquid do the talking. Browse all current Glenturret listings or all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial

When the oldest working distillery in Scotland found a new owner in 2019, many stood back and speculated on how its fortunes might change. Holly Motion speaks to the team about how a new approach has been a barnstorming success


Exploring how Scotland's oldest working distillery, The Glenturret, has gone back to basics and transformed the Highland producer's reputation

Back to basics at The Glenturret

The Glenturret: back to basics

It is hard to write the history of the future, but I hope that I am on safe ground when I say that the global pandemic of 2020 will be the defining event of the early 21st century. I say ‘hope’ because God help the human race if there is anything more defining waiting around the corner. By saying as much, I do not in any way diminish the other spectres that have haunted the dawning decades of the third millennium: among them mankind’s age-old companions, intolerance, religious fundamentalism and greed. Nevertheless, the pandemic has humbled humanity in a new and special way, combining our oldest foe, disease, with swift, easy, international travel – until recently one of the most central aspects of our technical and cultural advancement. Death and destruction, like everything else in life, are neither evenly nor democratically apportioned. Nevertheless, there can be few, if any, people on the planet whose lives have been untouched. Maybe there is a tribe of rainforest-dwelling Pygmies, cut off from what we hubristically call civilisation and which continues to exist in a state of prelapsarian Stone-Age ignorance. But the rest of us have been simultaneously confronted by our mortality, the fragility of our lives and, in many cases, the vacuity of our dreams. We reacted in different ways, retreating into what we found comforting. Some (yes, you, David Geffen) used social media to let the world know that they were safe on their yachts. Others explored the restorative powers of one of the most fundamental and symbolically domestic of rituals: baking bread. My own reaction was somewhere between these two poles. Within just a few days of the pandemic being declared in the UK, I had taken to the virtual airwaves with films – exquisitely directed by my younger son – of me smoking cigars with my elder son and dilating on the joys of the fragrant blue smoke of Havana cigars. Trivial perhaps, superfluous almost definitely, but to me immensely significant. It is hard to express the emotional impact of this activity without resorting to cliché, but then clichés tend to be clichés because there is an element of truth in them. And while the term ‘intergenerational male bonding’ is an arid form of words that traduces the emotional value of the experience, it also begins to explain its worth. But more than just finding a new way of communicating with my children, I like to feel that I am passing on something from which they can derive satisfaction; I was first inculcated into the world of the cigar by my stepfather-in-law – who splendidly encapsulated the appeal as being “the feeling of well-being” derived from learning how to wield this refined instrument of pleasure. Pleasure and well-being are the inspirations of these broadcasts (as I rather self-consciously, antediluvially, call them), and to my surprise they established a moderate but relatively enthusiastic following. Given that I am old enough to have children in their 20s, I am also old enough to regard the idea of using a telephone to make a home movie that has no actual physical presence, and that can be viewed via another intangible medium, as being pretty close to witchcraft. I find it remarkable that as many as 15,000 people – most of whom I have never met, living I know not where – tuned in to watch two men in slightly extravagant clothes (we wore safari suits, cowboy outfits, boating blazers, dinner jackets, business suits and tweeds) set fire to tubes of tobacco and try and convey a sense of the flavours they were tasting. But more than a degustatory sensation to be relayed, it was, in its way, an act of cultural transmission that in its essence is not very different to the role of say, indigent troubadours that wandered the courts of 12th and 13th century Provence, or the griots of the Mali empire of the 14th century, telling stories of noble exploits of the past. As we sat amongst its fragrant swirling wisps and gossamer tendrils; the sacred smoke of the cigar would unlock the past and liberate fragments of memory from wherever it is that memories are imprisoned and presumed forgotten. As we shared the flavour and the experience, recollections of my visits to Havana over the last quarter-century would be summoned unbidden – oxymoronic though that may sound. I remembered names of rollers, long conversations with factory directors and days spent in the fields of the plantations. I recalled meeting an ancient torcedor who had started work as a child and he remembered rolling cigars for Winston Churchill. I was reminded of a long afternoon spent on the terrace of the simple home of the late Alejandro Robaina, the Cuban tobacco farmer, whose time-furrowed face would give the pachydermic features of W.H. Auden stiff competition. He sat in his rocking chair and retrieved his own memories of how the climate had changed over the course of a generation, and of the taste of his first cigar, enjoyed before the age of 10 during the 1920s. However imperfectly, I was able to transmit these memories to my children in a setting and an atmosphere that made those memories theirs too. It is the associative power of the cigar to stimulate memory that raises it beyond the mere intake of nicotine, and instead elevates it to the level of a cultural activity. Proust had his madeleine and I have my cigar. I pick the cigar because it has been a personal comfort during a difficult time, but the same can be said to be true of any skill-laden and ritual-rich activity that is passed from generation to generation. I enjoy traditionally made clothes and I find the idea appealing that many hands contribute to the making of a single garment. It may be better-made than its ready-to-wear counterpart, it is likely to last longer and fit better – but these are only the tangible aspects. At the risk of sounding pretentious, there is what one might call a spiritual element to having clothes made. There is something uniquely appealing about clothes that have been made only for you and it is an appeal to which I succumbed almost 40 years ago. I first got into having clothes made for me long before I could afford it, when, as an undergraduate at Oxford, I fell under the spell of a charming old tailor called Stamp, Mr Stamp to his friends. He was a fabulous old boy with a shop on Broad Street, or The Broad as I believe we were encouraged to call it at the time, just down from Castell where he had started as an apprentice half a century earlier during the 1930s. He made me a pair of trousers, a blazer and few other items including several remarkable waistcoats. One of the best moments came when I took in a 50-year-old, double-breasted waistcoat for him to copy. He looked at it, examined a label sewn into the underside of the backstrap, peered at the stitching around the buttonholes, and then told me that the garment had been made for a well-known Spitfire test pilot, gave me the price of the fabric per yard in 1936 and – most impressive of all – informed me of the name of the man who had stitched the buttonholes.  My first shoemaker Eric Cook also beguiled me when he took a look at a pair of Lobb correspondent shoes, turned them over and was able to identify the man who had finished them because of the slightly elliptical curvature of the heel and the spacing of the nails.  For me, such knowledge is just as impressive as that of the connoisseur who can identify a long-lost masterpiece by examining the brushstrokes and the state of the canvas or wooden panel on which the paint was laid. But, unlike the admiration of an acknowledged masterpiece by a globally renowned artistic genius, the quality of such pleasures is more personal and, arguably, more meaningful. It was Franz Liszt who said, “A good Cuban cigar closes the door to the vulgarities of life,” but the same is true of the contemplation of a well-sewn buttonhole, or the anglage of a well-finished watch movement. Such pleasures may be only fleetingly experienced, but I would argue they are all the more precious for their intimacy: watches and clothes are worn on the body, the cigar is consumed – becoming in some way part of the body and stimulating the mind. These are things that ornament life, that raise the quotidian to the memorable and that transcend the disagreeable nature of too much of life today. I suppose that this is what is meant by ‘luxury’. I had been hoping to get to Paris to catch an exhibition, at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, devoted to the controversial subject of luxury, mounted under the aegis of my friend Pierre-Alexis Dumas, creative director of Hermès, who understands the field better than most. “While the luxury object resists definition by any single concept, drawing instead on shifting, eclectic visions, we might nonetheless agree that it possesses one distinctive characteristic above all others,” he told me. It is, he believes, “an object we keep, respect and cherish, one that archaeological discoveries across the globe reveal as speaking timelessly to us, its human power undimmed, resonant with distant emotions. Today, at a time when luxury seems to hold omnipresent status, in the media and in social networks, it is perhaps pertinent to recall that the luxury object is precisely one that is preserved and passed on – a magnificent, enduring conduit of culture and knowledge, bearing witness to human ingenuity.” The overuse of the word ‘luxury’ has led to its trivialisation, but there is a sense in which the pandemic has helped me transmit to my children something of my view of its true meaning. In a world of ever abbreviated communication, the chance to spend time in contemplation of what I love with those I love has been a gift – and the suspension of the ceaseless restless turmoil that we regard as normality, has shorn many so-called luxury items of their status-conferring function, allowing us to see them for what they are, to winnow the impostor from the authentic. I hope that I have conveyed, however clumsily, what it is that I appreciate, and uncovered something of the culture and values that make them important to me. My sons are fascinating people, their company is genuinely instructive for me, I see things anew through their eyes and this in turn has added further richness to life’s pleasures: not just appreciating the intrinsic qualities of, say a cigar or a suit, but in enhancing that appreciation by seeing it reflected in my children. It is a powerful combination of culture, emotion and enjoyment. Whether a vessel of personal memory, a conduit for the great values of humanity, or a bulwark against the deadening combination of fear and tedium of recent months: the superfluous, to misquote Voltaire ever so slightly, has seldom been so necessary. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Writer and author Nicholas Foulkes considers the notion of transmitting cultural knowledge and enthusiasms from one generation to the next – and how finding joy in the seemingly trivial details of the objects he values has brought him closer to his sons. 

Photography by Julian Broad.

Nicholas Foulkes considers the notion of transmitting cultural knowledge and enthusiasms from one generation to the next.

FONDATA: Foulkes & Sons 

Foulkes & Sons  

Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW has caused quite the stir. In her Bordeaux 2021 en primeur report, her first for her new publication The Wine Independent, she scored some wines below 80 points – and just 20% made it above the 90-point mark. She’s a woman on a mission, determined to bring honour and integrity back to wine criticism. The Master of Wine and Robert Parker protégée stepped down as Editor-in-Chief of the Wine Advocate – the leading fine wine publication – last year. She was tired of what had become a corporate life. Michelin took over in 2019 and her time was increasingly spent in meetings, doing reporting, looking at corporate responsibility as well as managing her team and making sure everything was going to plan – a plan, she emphasises, that was not set by her. Most importantly, her senior position took her further away from what she really loved doing – writing about wine. “I love to sit down with winemakers and capture that story that is not on their website, that is not in their marketing material. Something that is real and raw. There is not enough of that,” she tells me. Her view is that it’s the story that makes wine “more than just a drink” – and that’s why people spend hundreds of pounds on a bottle. This storytelling is what she’s looking to do with her new, small outfit, The Wine Independent. Importantly she’s partnered with Johan Berglund – a professional photographer (whose beautiful images we've used here) – to bring those stories to life, with a modern platform that is a world away from most other critics’ sites (often “a wall of words”, she says). As the name of the new publication suggests, Perrotti-Brown is making a stand against publications that she feels no longer put the consumer first. Her inspiration is Robert Parker’s original operation – the Wine Advocate started as a small newsletter shared with friends. “Essentially a mom-and-pop shop”, she explains, getting back to basics, with minimal staff and no fancy office with big overheads. For her, the goal is simple: to publish timely – and honest – reports, allowing readers to search for wines easily and helping them to discover something new. She doesn’t hold back voicing her concerns about the state of wine criticism today. She’s damning, believing there’s a trend not just to overscore, but that it’s a strategy to gain influence, helping critics be quoted by retailers and wineries – and therefore benefitting from “free marketing”. “When you see people coming in one or two points above everyone else and they hang on and wait until other people’s reviews have come out… I mean, come on, it’s definitely happening,” she says. The compaction of scores, however, is what really riles her. Everything sits between 95 and 99 these days, she suggests. “Nobody dares to go to 100 and nobody dares to go below 90.” Perrotti-Brown is outspoken about critics for whom the tiny number of 100-point scores they hand out is a point of pride. “There are a lot of critics who are just too chicken-s**t to give 100 points,” she says. “If you know a wine is 100 points, it takes a lot of bravery to put it out there.” Some critics – such as James Molesworth of Wine Spectator – don’t believe that a perfect wine exists, and therefore never give 100 points. “Which is ridiculous!” says Perrotti-Brown. “Why use a 100-point scale, if you are not going to use the top?” Her fear is that scores will lose all relevance and meaning. Indeed, she notes that retailers don’t even reference who gave the score they quote. “You go into a shop these days and look at the shelf-toppers and it doesn’t even say whose score it is – it just says 97 points. Every wine is 97 points!”  Critics should be fighting for consumers, she argues, rather than ingratiating themselves with wineries. “I know it is difficult, because we are sat there right in front of the winemaker, listening to their stories and I think the impetus is to really feel for that person, but you can’t. You always have to see it from the consumer’s perspective – it’s what Bob [Robert Parker] always told me. You are working for them.”  Hence, therefore, the broad range of scores that she felt was inevitable for a vintage like 2021. It was, she admits, a difficult vintage to assess in the evolution of Bordeaux. She’s adamant that she hasn’t changed the way she scores: “It just happens to be the worst vintage Bordeaux has had for a very long time,” she explains. Perrotti-Brown refers back to Robert Parker’s original benchmark for 90 points – an “outstanding” wine, a wine that is complex and age-worthy. For her – tasting very widely across the region – the majority of 2021s don’t meet those criteria, but she’s quick to emphasise that wines scored in the upper 80s are very good wines. “I think there has become some stigma over the wines scoring in the 80s and I don’t know why,” she says. Again returning to Robert Parker’s original scoring crib-sheet, these are “good to very good” wines and that is where, she feels, the bulk of Bordeaux 2021 wines fall.  Looking back at Robert Parker’s own en primeur scores in trickier vintages (2007, 2013, 1996), he too was awarding many wines eighty-something points, sometimes less. While Perrotti-Brown accepts the technological advances in viticulture and vinification mean you would rarely see Classed Growth wines receiving less than 80 points today, it only emphasises just how challenging the 2021 vintage was in Bordeaux. Of course, the vintage also produced some surprises. Despite everything that happened climate-wise, there were a number of wineries that produced outstanding wines, even by Perrotti-Brown’s assessment. “Some wines were absolute trainwrecks and there are other wines that are wow… you can tell these people worked their tails off,” she says.  The critic was certainly surprised and disappointed by other reports on the vintage, particularly given she’d worked and trained some of the people behind them. “When I am looking at other peoples’ scores [for Bordeaux 2021], 60% or more of the wines scored 90 points and above and that is astonishing to me,” she says, both confused and outraged. “Some of these wines, they are giving the same score ranges as the 2018 and the 2019s – I mean how is that possible?” Her report is a statement of intent. Lower scores may mean The Wine Independent isn’t as widely quoted by the trade, but what matters to Perrotti-Brown is whether consumers trust the publication. It’s a long-term game. “Eventually I hope consumers will look at all these other scores and say, ‘But what did The Wine Independent say?’” Perrotti-Brown took a huge risk stepping down from what is undeniably the wine world’s most influential publication – but she is confident she’s made the right choice. Her need for autonomy was the impetus for her to set up on her own, and she’s found freedom on her own terms. It is still early days for The Wine Independent and, for now, Perrotti-Brown is their only reviewer – although she confirms an additional critic will be announced in the coming weeks. Competing against more established publications with an extensive database of tasting notes and scores isn’t easy – but Perrotti-Brown has established herself as a disruptor in the field. She’s lain down the gauntlet – daring her peers to put the consumer back at the heart of what they do. Read more Editorial

Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW is making a stand. The ex Wine Advocate Editor-in-Chief, trained by Robert Parker, believes that critics are at risk of losing relevance – and for good reason. We talk to the wine writer about why she’s fed up of scoring strategies and set up The Wine Independent.

Why the wine critic left the *Wine Advocate* to go her own way, determined to bring honour and integrity back to wine criticism.

Lisa Perrotti-Brown on why she left Wine Advocate

The voice of independence: Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW

Auxey-Duresses is, at best, sleepy. As I rolled into the village on Monday morning, the streets were empty in the grey of a rainy winter’s day – just one retiree trundling slowly toward the boulangerie. But here, in this quiet corner of Burgundy, lies the home of Maison Leroy.  A visit to the négociant arm of the Leroy empire is a chance to look behind the curtain at one of Burgundy’s greatest properties, and the allure of such an audience doesn’t fade – even now, on my 12th visit. The wines are remarkable – and rapidly vanish into the cellars of eager collectors as soon as they’re released.  Despite the prestige of this address and its wines, however, it’s a humble, rural Burgundy charm that reigns supreme. Soon after I arrive, the phone rings – it’s Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy herself calling from the south of France to say hello, apologising that she can’t be there herself and hoping that the wines are showing well. There’s no pretence or politics, just modest and unassuming politesse.  And that style is characterised by the building itself. The Maison feels like a home – one that hasn’t changed for 30 years, with stacks of books squirrelled into every corner and the walls lined with articles, photos, reviews and other mementos. One could spend hours exploring this living archive. In amongst every issue of Bettane & Desseauve’s guide and issues of the Wine Spectator stretching back to the 1990s, there’s a picture of Bize-Leroy with Nixon, while nearby there’s a hand-written note from one Bob Parker.  Each year the Maison releases its annual collection – not just the latest vintage but a curated selection from the house’s extensive reserves, all hand-selected by Lalou Bize-Leroy herself. In September, she and her team start preparing the list, tasting endlessly to decide which wines should be set free into the world the following year. And there is an extensive back-catalogue to choose from – Bize-Leroy has been buying the very best parcels she can find for half a century. Over four months, the team decides what to release – wines that are drinking well or showing something that catches Bize-Leroy’s eye (or, more accurately, her palate).  While each collection used to be extensive, the releases have become increasingly focused. This year sees 10-15 reds and whites – and is particularly appealing to the wine geek. The collection is dominated mainly by 2017 reds and 2018 whites, however each one is paired with a more mature vintage of the same wine (or as close to as possible), stretching back to 1970. Inevitably, the older vintages are available in tiny volumes – but they’re testament to how age-worthy these “mere” négociant bottlings are.  Tasting through the range, the 2017 reds were a particular highlight. Even at 10am it was a challenge to resist swallowing – they are irresistible with their pure, crunchy fruit, so fresh and delicate with great persistence and complexity. The 2018 whites, meanwhile, from a warmer year are only just entering their drinking window and will gain with more time in the cellar.  Last year we couldn’t make it out with Covid restrictions, so it was all the more special to be back at Leroy this week. Emerging once more on Auxey-Duresses’s unassuming streets, I left even more in awe of this amazingly humble address.  Tasting notes: the Maison Leroy 2022 collection White 2018 Bourgogne Blanc: A pale lime-tinged colour, Maison Leroy’s 2018 Bourgogne Blanc is a bit shy at first, but with air opens up to reveal a fresh, floral nose. On the palate, the wine broadens, with layers building in the mouth to bring richness and stone-fruit notes. There’s a slight puppy fat to the texture at present, but this is lifted by vibrant acidity, making for a moreish wine overall. This is very different to last year’s sharper-angled 2017; the 2018 is a much more gourmand wine that will go beautifully with food. Drinking well now, it will age eight to 10 years without breaking a sweat. 2018 Saint-Aubin: Golden and concentrated in colour versus the Bourgogne Blanc, the 2018 Saint-Aubin has a profound, expressive nose – with limey tension. The palate is driven by a mouth-watering salinity, complemented by layers of vibrant citrus – blood orange, lemon and grapefruit – on show. Harmonious and balanced, the finish is long. Might need more time to reveal its full potential, but there’s no doubt that the potential is there.  2018 Meursault: Maison Leroy’s 2018 Meursault is attractive and concentrated with ripe, juicy white peach pulled fresh from a tree in the summer. But it’s far from simple fruit here – with honeycomb and grapefruit adding to the overall profundity. On the palate, there’s incredible tension between the ripeness of the 2018 vintage and a mineral acid backbone. Very vibrant and approachable, this offers depths that defy its status as a village wine. As with the Saint-Aubin, it will offer more with time in bottle.  2018 Meursault, Premier Cru, Les Genevrières: A step up from the village Meursault, the Premier Cru Genevrières offers even more concentration. The deep, complex nose is full of yellow stone-fruit, white blossom and hints of hazelnut. On the palate, it’s mouthcoating, but the concentration is not overblown – there’s precision and focus, with a saline mid-palate and mouth-watering acidity to complement the wine’s generosity. The finish is impressive, combining sharp-angled freshness and the wine’s sumptuous volume. This is built to age but is approachable now. 2014 Chassagne-Montrachet, Premier Cru, Les Chenevottes: The 2014 Chenevottes is expressive on the nose – it’s a wine with a lot to say. There’s a hint of reduction, but beyond that layer upon layer of aromas is revealed, showing different facets. Floral, lime and orange notes evolve on the palate, developing into deeper stone-fruit, ginger and honeysuckle. There’s a wash of salinity on the long finish that lifts the wine. Totally approachable now, this will age effortlessly for 10-15 years. Red 2018 Bourgogne Rouge: The 2018 Bourgogne Rouge from Maison Leroy is beautiful – punching well above the weight of its modest appellation. The nose is poised, perfumed and delicate – with expressive dried rose petals dancing against a backdrop of pure raspberry, wild strawberry and cherry fruit. There’s great density on the mid-palate, the alcohol and tannins seamlessly integrated with vibrant acidity from this warm vintage. It’s our favourite release of the cuvée for several years. 2017 Côte de Beaune Villages: Maison Leroy’s Côte de Beaune Villages is a blend of village fruit; while the exact blend is never disclosed, it can span the whole Côte, from Maranges to Beaune. The nose of the 2017 is exuberant, with sweeter and darker fruit than the Bourgogne Rouge, while a hint of smokiness gives a savoury edge. It’s both fresh and dense on the palate – there’s underlying power, yet the fine tannins make it feel light on its feet. The finish is long, laden with crunchy fruit. Very approachable now.  1997 Côte de Beaune Villages: The 1997 is remarkably dense in colour, with mature aromas of cured meat and very concentrated dark fruit. From a riper vintage versus the 2017, the richness of the fruit is evident here, however there’s still good balance on the palate with plenty of acidity and resolved tannins. It’s at a beautiful point of maturity, unlikely to gain from further ageing, but there’s no rush – with sufficient density to hold for five to 10 years. 2018 Savigny-lès-Beaune: This Savigny-lès-Beaune is deliciously enticing – a nose of archetypal, crunchy sour cherry. While it’s red fruit that draws you in on the nose, the palate shows a more serious side, with complexity building in layers. Freshness and finesse runs through the palate, with a vibrant acid backbone and lifted finish. Verry attractive and approachable, this is a superb, moreish wine that will keep you reaching for more.  2018 Beaune, Premier Cru, Les Montrevenots: This vineyard borders Pommard, sitting just above Beaune Clos des Mouches on a gentle southwest-facing slope. This Premier Cru site instantly shows more depth than the village wines, with an expressive, multi-layered nose with shifting cherry, blackberry, plum and wild strawberry aromas and an alluring hint of smoke. On the palate, the vibrant red fruit and freshness of this site and youthful Pinot Noir mingles with the ripe and serious dark-fruited side of the 2018 vintage. Beautifully balanced, this can be drunk now but will evolve nicely for 10 years or more. 2017 Nuits-Saint-Georges: The shift to the Côte de Nuits is instantly noticeable here. The wine has a deep colour and more austere, serious nose – with dark-fruited power accented by lighter white pepper spice and florals. On the palate, layers of bramble fruit build to create a concentrated and structured wine. There’s a firmer tannic backbone as is typical of Nuits-Saint-Georges, without being overly grippy. With underlying power, this is an aristocrat. The depth and balance here offers great potential, hold onto this for 15 to 20 years at least. 2017 Chambolle-Musigny: This is still beautifully aromatic on the nose, with a delicate, lace-like array of fruit and florals. This is pretty and refined, yet with underlying powerful. There’s a lot happening on the palate, with a certain juiciness balanced by tannins that are already beautifully silken. Despite the supple tannic structure, this feels like a baby – and will only deliver more with time in bottle. The length is stunning, lasting for minutes. Punching well above village level, this was a new favourite in the line-up – and one of the most promising in the range. 2017 Gevrey-Chambertin: This was the most concentrated wine in the line-up – both in terms of colour and aroma. Combining depth, complexity and power, this is impressive, with a multidimensional nose that keeps evolving in the glass, showing different facets from sweet cherry to gentle sweet spice and floral notes. The palate is turbo-charged – mouth-filling and generous, yet all the while retains superb balance. The tannins are chewy and plentiful, yet all wrapped in silk, bringing an overall impression of finesse. There’s incredible length, with a fresh, juicy finish. As with the Chambolle, this will only improve in bottle. It’s interesting to taste it side by side with the Chambolle-Musigny, each anchored in their terroir, but sharing finesse, poise and elegance. Discover more about Maison Leroy or read more Editorial 

Ahead of the 2022 releases from Maison Leroy, our Fine Wine Buying + Partner Director Corentin Margier visited the producer’s headquarters – an unassuming address that belies the greatness of the wines that emerge from its cellars 

Exploring the 2022 releases from the Maison Leroy's headquarters – an unassuming address that belies the greatness of the wines that emerge from its cellars

Exploring Maison Leroy, a humble home 

Maison Leroy: a humble home

Lbob

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