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  

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

Steven Spurrier might be approaching 80, but his wit, quill and tongue are as sharp as ever. While – as is now the norm – we spoke on the phone, there is no doubt in my mind that the voice at the end of the line was immaculately dressed – with due attention paid to every detail. Spurrier has a critical eye, both precise and unfailingly honest in his assessment of whatever crosses his path. “People do go on about the Judgement of Paris,” he laments. “It’s stuck to my back. I can’t do anything about it.” Instantly, I feel grateful for the phoneline, as I blush, knowing that I will join the cohorts of pesky interviewers who can’t not ask about the 1976 tasting that flung both Spurrier and Californian wine into the limelight. The blind tasting – pitching the best Bordeaux and Burgundy against California’s finest – paved the way for the New World, challenging the fine wine status quo, and creating a template for almost every other region to follow as they looked to prove their worth.  It is this, Spurrier feels, that was the real mark left on the wine trade – opening people’s eyes to the power of blind tasting. “I just happened to put it on,” he says modestly of the event. Certainly, there is an element of coincidence that has ensured the tasting’s place in the history books: if journalist George Taber hadn’t attended – writing up the event for Time magazine with its now iconic Judgement of Paris title – and Spurrier’s wife Arabella hadn’t thought to take a few pictures, the occasion might have been remembered only by the few. At the time Spurrier was running a wine shop and school (L’Académie du Vin) in Paris, being
one of few Englishmen bold enough to try and teach the French about wine. He’d started his career just a few years earlier at Christopher’s – then London’s oldest wine merchant. Returning to the UK in 1988, he made the switch to writing and consulting on wine. The rest, as they say, is history: today he is one of the most famous names in the world of wine. That might be achievement enough for most people, but Spurrier isn’t most people – and he’s certainly not resting on his laurels.  In 2009 he and his wife Arabella planted their first vines on their Dorset property. Steven had long thought the chalky soils and the natural amphitheatre could make for a good vineyard, but it took a while for him to take the plunge. More than anyone, he knows how true the old adage is that the wine trade is the best way to make a small fortune – if, of course, you start out with a large one. Nevertheless he’d been fascinated by England’s sparkling potential – ever since he was served a glass of Nyetimber Blanc de Blancs blind in the mid-1990s. Soon after the first vines took root at Bride Valley, he was at a black tie dinner at Château Lafite-Rothschild, talking to Baron Eric de Rothschild, he mentioned that he had planted a vineyard. Baron Eric put an arm round him and said, “Welcome to the club.” At the time he felt he was being congratulated; now he knows it was an element of commiseration. He’s 100% over budget on the project but is confident things will turn out ok. And, on the upside he hasn’t had cause to buy a bottle of Champagne for five years. The wines are made by Ian Edwards (of nearby Furleigh Estate), with Spurrier involved at both blending and dosage. At
first the project was focused on sparkling only, but now they’re making still wines too – something about which he is very excited, particularly in the wake of the superb, warm 2018 vintage. A lot has changed since he joined the wine trade in the 1970s. Although he’s not necessarily enthused about everything (“I think natural wine gets away with a lot”), Spurrier thinks we’re in “a golden age for the wine drinker”, with a kaleidoscopic offering for today’s consumers. I ask him what of everything he’s tasted has stood out recently: like most people, he’s been spending a lot of time on Zoom – and one bottle from a recent online tasting stood out, 2017 Volnay Premier Cru Santenots from Faiveley, a close rival for the best Volnay he’s ever had (from Comtes Lafon).  But while wine might have filled his days, art seems to permeate every aspect of his life. It
is, he says, an “addictive passion”, ever since he bought his first Stubbs etching at Sotheby’s 63 years ago. “I’ve got about 3,000 bottles of wine in the cellar, and I’ve got a list of what’s there. I think about them in vague terms, what one might drink tonight and so on,” he tells me, “but they don’t play a part in my life.” His home is full of fine art – paintings, sculpture and sketches. Unlike wine, he feels that “art speaks to you,” he says. I ask whether he ever thinks about the path not taken – working in art, rather than wine. The answer – despite the fact that things have, at times, gone “exceedingly badly” – is, in short, no. “Life in the wine trade was so captivating, so encompassing, with the ups and the downs,” he says with a touch of nostalgia. “Although I would have lost less money in the art business,” he knowingly chuckles. Most importantly, he notes, “I’ve never been bored in the wine trade.”  This feature was originally published before Steven Spurrier's passing in March 2021 Read more Editorial  

Ahead of the publication of his memoirs in 2020, the wine merchant turned writer Steven Spurrier spoke to Sophie Thorpe about a life dedicated to wine and why he couldn't stop buying art 

Wine merchant turned writer Steven Spurrier on a life dedicated to wine and why he couldn't stop buying art 

Steven Spurrier's life in wine

Steven Spurrier: a life in wine

Unlike many wine-lovers, I came across Occidental before Kistler. I worked for a company that imported some of its early vintages – and they were like nothing I’d ever tasted. These translucent Pinot Noirs glimmered, but their pastel-pale shade was nothing but a nudge and wink at the Burgundies that inspired them. Aromatics leapt from the glass – floral and febrile, but it was the vivid, intense, crystalline purity of the palate that I found so beguiling. Seeing where these wines are made – on the brink of the Pacific, where ocean breezes lash at the vines, and thick fog grasps the dramatic, undulating landscape – only made them all the more enchanting. Even today, 18 years after Steve Kistler first put down vines here, the region is sparsely planted – with Occidental one of a handful of pioneers of the outer reaches of the Sonoma Coast. The area was long deemed too cold to ripen fruit, with dairy the main industry – and fields of grazing cattle and sheep are still interspersed with plots of vines. Occidental’s vineyards – now 85 acres in total – now neighbour those of Platt, Littorai and Joseph Phelps’s Quarter Moon site, sitting at 500 feet above sea level – a modest altitude when you consider some of Napa’s mountain districts have parcels above 2,000 feet. But it’s their proximity to the ocean (which is just five miles away) that makes the climate here so cool – and damp. Leaf-pulling and spraying are key to managing disease pressure – unfortunately making organic farming almost impossible. “We want the purity of fruit to shine,” Catherine (Cate) Kistler says. She joined her father, Steve, six years ago, working as his Assistant Winemaker – just one element that makes the venture a true family business. Not in the way that Walmart or Ford are a family business, but in the hand-to-mouth, everyone-mucks-in, this-is-both-their-livelihood-and-legacy kind of way. It’s a “tight little universe” where they work, live and farm, Cate explains. This is one reason that Steve stepped away from the iconic winery that he’d created in 1978 – Kistler had shifted and grown, becoming something larger than he’d ever anticipated, or necessarily wanted.  Kistler had humble beginnings – with Steve making the wines in what was essentially a wooden shack, and living upstairs. That building – up in the Mayacamas – was consumed by the fires in 2020, and today Kistler works with around 300 acres (including their own vines and those farmed by growers for them). The investment of Bill Price (a man whose first major move in the wine industry was buying, and later selling, Beringer) has added further gloss to a winery that has become one of California’s cult names. If that makes it sound like there’s been wholesale change, that’s far from the truth – a clear succession plan has ensured only the gentlest of evolutions at Kistler, and ensured the producer maintains its position at the top. Jason Kesner – who describes himself as a “vine and yeast shepherd” – is the man at the helm today. He joined the team in 2008 (aged 40), working alongside Steve for close to a decade before taking the reins.  Although born on the East Coast, Kesner grew up around wine. He moved out to California aged eight, where his mother had taken a job as Head Microbiologist at Robert Mondavi, and his soon-to-be stepfather worked as VP of Vineyard Operations – the smells and sounds of a working winery firmly familiar. Despite his early initiation to the industry, he studied cultural anthropology and left both the area and industry. He was eventually lured back, working first for Francis Ford Coppola (the man behind Inglenook’s revival), but in a non-wine role – managing his special projects. Via Coppola’s poker games, Kesner connected with Pat Kuleto and ended up planting vineyards for him, before finding himself at Hudson (his “graduate school for Chardonnay production”). This prestigious name features on bottles from the likes of Aubert, Kongsgaard, Cakebread, Failla and Ramey – and Kesner got to work with all of them, growing top-tier fruit for 34 clients, including Steve Kistler. And Steve was different. He was, Kesner says, “very, very focused”, “hyper-intelligent, borderline genius” and – along with his business partner, the late Mark Bixler – thought about things on a different level. When the duo started Kistler in the 1970s, working with a single clone and single sites, no one else was doing it – with his unparalleled energy and intent, Steve created something profound. Although Kesner had already worked closely with Steve at Hudson, it was only when he arrived at Kistler in 2008 that he realised how differently Steve operated. “I had jumped into a different timeline and a different pace,” Kesner tells me. “Steve and I had conversations that, quite literally, spanned years.” These conversations would be picked up each vintage, just a handful of sentences on a topic expressed until the next season. For Kesner, this long-term vision was what set Kistler apart: “It’s not about the people who are doing it at the moment. It’s about everything that’s come before and it’s about everything that will come after.” The Kistler evolution has been slow, but it has happened – past their phase of “embracing the cocaine ’90s” (“If you weren’t, you weren’t paying attention,” Kesner says), with a shift toward earlier picking, native ferments and reduction in new oak (from 50% down to around 38% across the range today) – but without sacrificing the seductive, silken style that defines their Chardonnay. “Our job is to polish the jewel,” Kesner says. “The diamond doesn’t need to be re-cut.” The vines are also gradually gaining in age (currently averaging a spritely 35 years), which is only improving the wines further. Kesner is continuing Steve’s work and the philosophy remains true to the original concept. “The best and highest use of a given site is when you're guiding it, not driving it,” he says, pointing to Mother Nature (rather than Bill Price) as the ultimate boss. He loathes the title “winemaker” – fully aware that it’s an entire team behind Kistler. “There are 56 people who are dedicated to the production of these wines. They’re out there pruning in January and then they’re going to be out there picking for this year in October. And it’s because of that really powerful group of people that we’re able to do what we do.” Meanwhile, out on the coast, Steve is continuing his own quest for terroir. Occidental, Cate tells me, is all about exploring “what this ridge means”. The yields at Occidental, overlooking the Pacific, are tiny, maxing out at around two tons/acre. The work is painstaking, with careful canopy management and spraying to avoid mildews, and steep slopes that need to be hand-hoed to manage the weeds. And, as at Kistler, the Pinot Noirs here are all made identically – so it is the site, rather than hand of the maker, that shines through. Be that though it may, it takes exceptional talent to make wines like this. “[Steve] is yet again 30 years ahead of everybody in California,” Kesner says. “It might take the American palate a while to catch up with them, but I firmly believe those will be recognised as some of the best Pinot Noirs in the world. Hands down.” Steve’s an elusive character – and seems happiest tucked away in his remote corner of the Sonoma Coast, away from the limelight. “He’s not a man of many words,” Kesner says, although suggests that working with Cate has drawn him out of his shell a little. Cate talks about him unsurprisingly lovingly, but doesn’t shy away from admitting there are challenges to the “weird and wonderful world” of family business. Harvard-educated, she’s quick-witted and sharp, and has clearly inherited her father’s passion for wine. Not only is he clearly deeply embedded in everything Occidental, but his interest goes beyond vine-growing, with what I suspect is an enviable collection of his own, from the alluring line-ups of Grand Cru Burgundy that I’ve glimpsed on Cate’s Instagram. It takes something rather extraordinary to be willing to give up your name, to start from scratch, all over again, with a new winery and new vineyards. But there’s a reason that his longtime vineyard manager (Ruben Molinar) and cellar master (Raymundo Abarca) left Kistler with Steve in 2017; and it’s a tribute to the man. Now Molinar and Abarca’s children are working alongside Steve’s – and the family is growing. But Cate and Steve don’t want to create Kistler 2.0. They’re developing another ranch, but they don’t want the project to become so big that they’re no longer doing most of the work themselves (“We’ve seen that movie,” Cate jests). The first vintage of Occidental was only 2011, but the wines are already making their mark. Steve’s legacy at Kistler lives on, safely being shepherded by Kesner and his team, but it’s also being re-born at Occidental, and set to be carried forward by Cate. “Wine is my dad’s world,” Cate tells me. And it’s quite a world – one that anyone tasting his wines is fortunate to be part of. Browse all Occidental and Kistler listings, or read more about California

Kistler’s Chardonnays are the stuff of legend – but now Steve Kistler has a new project, Occidental, crafting Pinot Noir on the outer reaches of the Sonoma Coast. Sophie Thorpe explores the winemaker’s legacy and these two very special estates

Kistler Chardonnay is the stuff of legend – but now Steve has a new project, Occidental. We explore his legacy and the two special Sonoma wine estates today

Kistler & Occidental – site expression in Sonoma

In pursuit of Sonoma’s true identity: Kistler and Occidental

It’s 20 years since Eduardo Chadwick gathered some of Europe’s most famous wine writers for a blind tasting – one to rival the famous 1976 Judgement of Paris (when California proved its wines could compete with – and beat – France’s best). Chadwick was convinced that critics were underestimating Chilean wines – for no reason other than snobbery against the nation. The Berlin Tasting pitched Chadwick’s top wines (Viñedo Chadwick, Seña and Don Maximiano Founder’s Reserve) against Bordeaux’s First Growths and a lone Super Tuscan (Antinori’s Solaia). Chadwick charged the late Steven Spurrier with running the event. “I never imagined that what happened was about to happen,” Chadwick tells me. To his and everyone else’s amazement, the 2000 Viñedo Chadwick took the top spot, followed by 2001 Seña, then 2000 Ch. Lafite Rothschild, and 2000 Ch. Margaux – tied equally in fourth place with 2000 Seña. Finally, there was proof that Chile’s wines deserved a place on the world stage.  But, for Chadwick, one watershed moment wasn’t enough. He repeated the tasting, first in São Paulo, then Tokyo – and onward, hosting the same blind tasting 22 times around the world, all with similarly spectacular results for his wines. It takes nerves of steel – and a certain amount of ego – to be willing to risk repeating such a tasting, and yet Chadwick was justly rewarded. His campaign is just one way in which he has forged a path for fine, Chilean wine – with a relentless, dogged determination.  Chadwick is the fifth generation of his family to make wine in Chile. Don Maximiano Errázuriz emigrated from the Basque country and was the first to plant vines in the Aconcagua Valley in 1870. He identified the location, 100km north of Santiago, with its cool ocean breezes, hot summers and rainy winters, as perfect for growing grapes. Operating under the motto of, “from the best land, the best wine”, he planted vines in this idyllic site, near Panquehue, and built a winery – that still stands today.  Gradually, the business grew – and it became the largest vineyard in the world owned by an individual, with 1,300 hectares under vine at its peak in the late 19th century. Despite this early prosperity, Chile’s wine industry didn’t continue to thrive. There was no export market and domestic consumption (which reached up to 80 litres per capita annually) was slashed by severe taxation, while political and economic turbulence, with communist then military rule, put not just the industry, but nation, in crisis. By the early 1980s, wine was cheaper than water and around half of the nation’s vines were ripped out.  It was onto this unstable scene that Eduardo Chadwick arrived. He had initially trained as an industrial engineer before deciding to focus on wine instead, going to study in Bordeaux under the legendary oenologist Emile Peynaud. His father bought the family winery back from the banks, and Chadwick started dusting away the cobwebs, re-opening Viña Errázuriz and – armed with new, technical knowledge – made the first vintage of Don Maximiano Founder’s Reserve, the property’s flagship wine, in 1984. The operation was still rudimentary – with rauli vats (a native hardwood), no temperature control and pergola vines planted on the fertile flats – but it was an early indication of what was possible. Tasting the wine four decades later, it’s held up remarkably well – with surprising vibrancy on the nose and a chiselled, savoury profile of pure Cabernet Sauvignon.  Gradually, Chadwick invested in equipment – stainless steel tanks, modern presses and barrels – and started to plant vineyards on slopes with poorer soils. Alongside this shift, pivotal elections in 1989 saw Chile become a democracy once more – and key figures from the world of wine visited. Soon entry-level wines were being exported by the likes of Oddbins and Victoria Wine. The doors had opened for Chilean wine. Robert Mondavi visited Chadwick in 1991 – and the two men hit it off, sharing an unrelenting drive to push their industry forward, and Mondavi recognised in Chile the potential he had seen in Napa in the 1960s. He knew that his partnership with Ch. Mouton Rothschild (Opus One) had been key to changing Napa’s reputation – and the duo hoped that their own joint venture might do the same for Chile: Seña (literally meaning “signal”) was born. Bob’s son, Tim Mondavi worked with Chadwick on the project and suggested looking for a site closer to the coast in the Aconcagua Valley, in search of even greater finesse, producing the first vintage in 1995.  And Chadwick didn’t stop there. His father had purchased an estate in the Alto Maipo in 1945, home to a polo field (Eduardo’s father, Alfonso, had captained the Chilean team for years). In 1992, Chadwick convinced his father to let him transform the polo field – with its pure gravel soils and 15˚C diurnal swing – into a vineyard, feeling it was perfect for Cabernet Sauvignon. Alfonso died the following year, but the first vintage of this project – Viñedo Chadwick, named in honour of his father – was made in 1999.   Chadwick knew the wines were good – but convincing the world of that fact was the challenge. He’s clear that Chile made a major error in churning out great-value, entry-level wines – good, but not fine wines – a price-point that came to define the nation. “That’s why it was very difficult to convince the audience that we can also produce world-class wines,” says Chadwick. “Chile had no recognition. We had no ratings, no Parker points, no Suckling points.” And so he set about changing that with the Berlin Tasting.  With that event’s market-shifting results (then echoed around the world), he’d created momentum for change. A decade later, he went on to break through another boundary: the 2014 Viñedo Chadwick became the first Chilean wine to earn 100 points (from James Suckling). Just last year, the 2021 vintage was the first Chilean wine rated 100 points by the Wine Advocate. When I sat down with him March this year, it was at an event paying tribute to the two decades that have passed since the Berlin Tasting – featuring early vintages from each estate, and their greatest successes. The 1998 Seña was a particular standout – a cool vintage that today is perfumed, elegant, bright and effortlessly long. Any doubters of Chilean wine were instantly quieted. And, as with the Berlin tasting, the event was being replicated around the globe – the campaign to champion Chilean wine never ending.  When Chadwick started in 1983, Viña Errázuriz had just 10 hectares of vineyard. Today, across their estates, Chadwick farms 900 hectares of vines. He bought out his siblings years ago, when he found they were more interested in dividends than growing and investing in the business. Now three of his four daughters are working alongside him – excited by the potential of coastal sites (where they make the Las Pizarras wines) and a new sparkling project. There has been no shortage of challenges along the way, but they’ve only fuelled Chadwick’s relentless pursuit of recognition for Chile and its wines. “Where we are today is beyond my wildest dreams,” he tells me, and yet it’s only because of his tireless ambition that Chilean wine has made it to this point. Fortunately, it looks like his children have inherited his determination – ready to rule over the next chapter of this epic story.  Explore all listings of Viña Errázuriz, Seña and Viñedo Chadwick or read more about Chile 

In the last 40 years, Eduardo Chadwick has single-handedly forged a place for Chile in the fine wine arena. Two decades after the pivotal Berlin Tasting, Sophie Thorpe sat down with the man himself to explore his legacy – and what lies ahead 

20 years after the Berlin Tasting, we sit down with Eduardo Chadwick – the man that created Chile’s first icon wines, Sena, Vinedo Chadwick and Errazuriz

Championing Chile – Eduardo Chadwick

Championing Chile: Eduardo Chadwick

Many factors come into play when tasting Chateau Musar vintages. Was it a warmer Cabernet year (1999, 2000, 2005)? Was it cooler, making Cinsault more influential in the blend as in 1998? Or was it a Carignan year like 2003? Will grape prominence be less relevant than the dodging of bullets across the Beka’a in a vintage we’re lucky to see the appearance of at all?  The tasting notes that follow shine a light on the vintage, the weather conditions, and the family events that helped shape the wines. There is also an insight into the mindset of the winemaker, Serge Hochar, as he became less influenced by his background in Bordeaux and increasingly confident in the wines emerging from his own terroir in Lebanon. Hochar family wines live for a long time and their flavours linger in the mouth and memory long after the bottle is drained. Some of these wines have been tasted à point, at the peak of perfection, but many have yet to reach this moment, and they are judged on their potential. Even more fascinating, perhaps, are the notes on wines that are perhaps just past their prime, but still delivering fascinating nuances that astound the taster – some of these wines elicit the most evocative tasting notes of all. For the Hochar family, a new wine, however shapely or pleasing, is always pregnant with promise for the future. Many of the notes below show the best that the wines can be – but they also underline the fact that for each taster Musar’s most sublime moment will be different. Although the Hochar family does not believe in the concept of defining a wine with numbers, ratings have been included to give some guidance.  Jancis Robinson MW, Bartholomew Broadbent and Steven Spurrier award marks out of 20 for each wine. Michael Broadbent prefers a five-star scoring system. All notes were taken in 2018/19 with the exception of Michael Broadbent’s. Chateau Musar: the reds One-third of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cinsault and Carignan, aged for a year in French Nevers oak. 2013 Chateau Musar  "Dense, deep red, still hints of purple at the core and little age on the rim. Marvellously warm Mediterranean fruits on the nose, autumnal in style but youthful in their rich, robust, vigorous presence. The essence of Lebanon in a glass, rich with spice and cooling breezes, the dry, herby fruit flows with energy over the palate before giving way to a finish that confirms the structure, fruit and tannins blending exuberantly with intriguing hints of much more to come in the next decade." Steven Spurrier, Score: 18/20, Drink: 2020-2040  2009 Chateau Musar  "Mid-crimson. Light, sweet start. For the moment it’s a little simple. Bright, ripe red fruit. Slightly burnt edge. Lots of tannins. Quite dry and youthful on the finish. Much longer bottle age needed. By far the most youthful wine in this vertical tasting." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 17+++/20, Drink: 2028-2050  "Deep ruby colour but light translucent rim. More primary sweet baked red fruit notes and a lovely bloody, cured meat Rhone character. This is a complex nose – sweet candied blackberry, raspberry, cardamom, tobacco – a very pure nose.  Dense tannins still not fully integrated but will get there and very well balanced with a vibrant line of acidity running through the palate. A real Italian flair to the wine but the tannins are so silky, beautifully handled. Still plenty of life in this wine." FINE+RARE 2008 Chateau Musar  "Heady and beguiling with a gamey note on the nose. Very sweet and young; well balanced on the palate. No hurry at all to drink this youthful ferment. Very tight, dry wine that is so much younger than any other vintage tasted. So much more youthful than a Bordeaux 2008!" Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 17.5+++/20, Drink: 2025-2045 "After blending, [Head Winemaker] Tarek [Sakr] was raving about this vintage. I asked him to add 0.5% of any wine he liked and we’d taste it again in two weeks. An act of faith or la folie? We tasted it again. He raved again; the wine had changed colour and bouquet." Serge Hochar "Dark, blood red. Really powerful nose with tonnes of young, juicy blue and red fruit. Behind this, layers of dried fruit emerge (prunes and raisins) and tobacco, generally a much darker and more brooding profile than the initially youthful nose suggested. Leather and smoked meat, as well as mineral graphite, but also fresh mint and liquorice. Complex and ever-changing in the glass that invites you to keep going back and discovering more. Again, fantastic acidity, plus velvety tannins." FINE+RARE 2003 Chateau Musar  "Mid-garnet. Quite a bit deeper and younger-looking than even the 2001. A little marine influence (oyster shells?) on the somewhat reticent nose. Rather different from many of these Musars. Sweet start and very vigorous and fun. If I had not tasted vintages back to 1961, I might have taken this for a fully mature wine. It already gives masses of pleasure with some milk-chocolate notes and quite a bit of light dry tannin on the end. Excellent drive. Long and dramatically big, but with good freshness on the finish." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20, Drink: 2016-2035 "A vintage with high alcohol and acidity. Rainiest winter in 15 years, then not a drop of rain from April throughout a hot, sunny summer. Heatwave during flowering reduced the harvest by 30%." Tarek Sakr, Head Winemaker "Darker than more recent vintages, gun smoke, spice and hints of leather. Rich darker fruit, riper with dense, sweet mid-palate. Balanced though, with Cinsault contributing acid and vibrancy that is often absent in 2003s. Fruit profile is richer and darker and tannins riper and juicy, perhaps not as refined as the excellent 2008, but still with Musar DNA. Smoked meat and charcoal. Delicacy throughout. Fascinating and delicious." FINE+RARE
 2000 Chateau Musar  "Reasonably mature. Brick-red rim, autumnal faded red bowl. Mouthwatering acidity on the nose that can be smelt a foot away. Lovely aromas of damp autumn forests, decaying leaves and wood combine with a slightly chocolatey sweetness. A little spirit developed over the course of the evening: almost a Drambuie or Grand Marnier character. Slightly sweet on the palate with very long, classic autumnal Musar notes, soft, mature and Old World, braced by that lovely acidity. Still full flavoured and crisp on its long, lingering aftertaste, finishing with notes of liquorice and sherbet." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18/20   "A Cabernet Sauvignon year. One of my clients called it 'a lioness' of a wine." Serge Hochar "Bright ruby red with the start of some brick around the edges. Sweet fruit, baked strawberries, rosewater and pomegranate. Peppery spice. Some leather and petrichor. With more air, burning embers and deep, meaty fruit and spice. Lovely sweet tannins on entry. Elegant and fresh, but with an enveloping warmth and caressing softness, though it remains both light and structured thanks to the depth of flavour and superb acidity." FINE+RARE  1998 Chateau Musar  "Pale, jewel-bright garnet. Light, spicy, particularly well-integrated nose, already well developed. A sweet start on the palate; the opposite of heavy; a really lovely wine: fresh, sweet, with some very slight mintiness and a dry finish. Very long, and nicely mature: seems just right now. It will go beautifully with food. One of my favourite wines in this collection. Is it the Cinsault I like so much?" Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20, Drink: 2012-2030 "Tarek said: 'Let’s bottle at the end of the second year. Let’s try!' We did 20,000 bottles like this, then the rest a year later, as usual. We tasted the wines four years later. Something was missing in the earlier-bottled wines. They had an obvious Chateau Musar character but were not necessarily better. Identity is permanently important. We went back to the original formula." Serge Hochar "Cool year, Cinsault dominated. Cold and rainy until June, with a sunny, dry summer. Harvest began on 9th September." Tarek Sakr, Head Winemaker  "Similar in style to the 1997 but with more fruit concentration, the aromas more earthy and
dried leather, but the lifted perfumed floral tone still dominates on the nose: dried roses, sweet licorice, candied cinnamon – lovely additional set of oak flavours that add aromatic complexity. Lovely texture – tannins are seamless – silky and long – provide structure but are sweet and resolved, backed by vibrant acidity keeping the wine fresh. Fruit is plump, rich, ripe, very much on the red fruit spectrum – raspberry, red cherry. Great acidity. Light fresh tobacco and light leather notes coming through on the finish. Great integration and drinking very well now. Difficult to pick between the '97 and '98 – the '97 is more ethereal – it tastes like quality aged Burgundy! '98 is plusher and more concentrated but less ethereal." FINE+RARE
 1997 Chateau Musar  "Very light in colour with maturity on the rim: salmon ruby. Surprisingly intense and concentrated nose with strong ash and autumnal smells; great acidity, damp leaves and old bonfires. On the palate, very sweet fruit and a long finish that goes through several evolutions (one developing old pomegranate flavours) in the longest aftertaste of any Musar. Full mouthfeel defies the lightness of the wine. Almost chewy in texture. Intense volatile acidity." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18/20  "We had two harvests – before and after a week of heavy rain – and made a big, big wine. Two years after bottling it changed direction and began to create heavy sediments. It was the biggest surprise in my life. This wine was behaving like a human going through an adolescent crisis. Which way is it heading now? The only thing I know is that I trust my wines. It is already an interesting wine, and starting to taste beautiful." Serge Hochar "Translucent Pinor Noir-esque colour with tremendous clean aromatics – lifted floral notes,
fresh aniseed, scented aromatic tea leaf, red cherry, strawberry, pomegranate, so perfumed. Seamless tannins, silky soft but there is a delicate framework and the fruit concentration provides lovely depth. Fruit remains very fleshy. Very clean considering the age, and lovely refreshing, vibrant acidity, remarkably stable at 24 years of age. Lovely, ethereal quality to this wine, reminds me of a great aged Burgundy with the acid and florality!" FINE+RARE 1979 Chateau Musar  "…misleadingly pale, fully mature; nose like squashed strawberries; sweet, long, delicious." Michael Broadbent "Vibrant red with a hint of mahogany but still red on the rim. Astoundingly young and vigorous with warm red summer fruits and a definite hint of roses on the nose; has the feel of a wine at least 20 years its junior. The sweetness of fruit continues on the palate with a backbone of tannin to firm it up – without losing the old-fashioned ‘burgundian’ richness and just the right level of acidity to refresh the palate for another glass. This must always have been an exceptional wine, as it remains today." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20 1974 Chateau Musar  "Good depth but still light, with a mature-looking, orangey rim. Very vibrant, sweet-fruited nose, alive and drawing attention to itself. Very old, elegant fruit on the palate, with a touch of cheese rind. Extraordinary texture: velvety and syrupy at the same time; deep, with high acidity and a very long finish. Biscuity flavours (‘Playbox’ biscuits: if you are English and of a certain age, you’ll remember licking the sugary coat off those). Although past its prime, it is fascinating, like an old man with many stories to tell. You can imagine the wartime conditions through which this wine has aged, enduring much and remaining strong, until now as it begins to lose its way." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 19/20 "My ’74 I wasn’t happy with. But it developed! In 2000 I tasted it again. Now I think it is nearly ready to drink." Serge Hochar 1970 Chateau Musar  "In 1983, richly coloured; pine needles and vanilla; soft, velvety, well-balanced, yet powerful and plump like Château Petrus. Labelled ‘Réserve Rouge. Grand Cru’, still deep and rich, complete." Michael Broadbent, Score: five stars  "Dark, shaded ruby; just the sort of colour I would expect from a 1970 red Bordeaux. Light, very Cabernet nose. If I were given this blind I would be tempted to head straight for Bordeaux, though it would have to be a comely château such as Palmer perhaps, and a fairly ripe vintage. Perhaps 1961? But then there is probably more sweetness and a bit more exoticism than one would find in a Bordeaux of this evident age... Mouth-filling and again that note of violets, candied this time. A little dusting of tannins on the end. Lovely wine." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18/20, Drink: 1985-2022 1964 Chateau Musar  "Mature rim but not for its age: still tons of vibrant life in its red colour. Very little sign of ageing. Nose is very big, more like a mature Châteauneuf-du-Pape or other big, structured Rhône wine. Very concentrated and deep with autumnal bonfire ash. Spectacularly good, huge on the palate: damp decaying leaves; great acidity; volatility balanced by brown sugar flavours; delicious, sweet, long on the finish. Hardly any age. A great classic wine." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20 "I had been in Bordeaux. I was 25. I prefer not to qualify the attitude of the French towards me, but no-one hurt me: they respected my oenological degree. However, I never took them a wine of my own. I was pretentious, my way! Was it as a reaction to this? I don’t know, but 1964 was my wild wine." Serge Hochar 1961 Chateau Musar  
"Slightly sludgy rust colour. Sweet, rich and thoroughly exotic. Old leather handbags? With some biscuit slurry (dunked, not-too-gingery ginger nuts?). Ethereal and lifted. Beautiful sweetness as it hits the palate then real freshness and super-clean, thoroughly mature aromas. Gloriously mature but not at all old. Does taste like a wine from a bygone age… Long and rich on the finish. Amazing to think that Cinsault can last this long. No variety imprints itself. Just a little chewiness on the end suggests a solid accompaniment would be wise." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20,  Drink: 1980-2028  1960 Chateau Musar  "Great depth for a wine of this age. Still very solid red with a touch of maturity on the rim. Looks about 15 years old. Classic nose: mature Bordeaux in character; signs of age and aromas reminiscent of very old cellars in France; lovely autumnal smells and meaty redcurrant fruit. Perfection on palate: full fruit and a great mouthfeel, with sweetness, length, great texture and perfect evolution; a little spicy and hot on the finish. Like an old Bordeaux but with better acidity, then a lovely aftertaste that conjures up the bonfire smells of autumn country walks. At its peak now. One of the best Musars I’ve ever tasted." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20  "That summer I was invited to Château Langoa-Barton for an internship with Ronald Barton. What I saw, tasted and learned there affected me. If I had to describe myself, I was a civil engineer who made wine and who had started to discover the complexity of wine. I was trying to understand, to observe. I knew that nature will never repeat herself and for a while I thought I might change all the grape varieties that we were growing, but to plant grapes and make good wine takes 20 years, and what if I was wrong?  "However, I experimented a little with Grenache, Mourvèdre and Merlot. Looking back there were three stages to my winemaking. Between 1959 and 1964 I was making wines without an objective, with what we had at hand. From 1960 to 1970, having studied in Bordeaux and been influenced by Saint-Julien and Saint-Estèphe, I now realise that I was trying to produce wines in that style. Since 1970, I have been producing my wines, my way. Les vins du terroir Libanais." Serge Hochar 1959 Chateau Musar  "The oldest vintage presented by Serge Hochar in London in August 1979: fine, rich, mature; delicious bouquet; sweet, soft, fabulous. Twenty years later: orange-tinged; lovely old nose; still delicious. Last tasted at Musar in Beirut, Dec 1999." Michael Broadbent, Score: five stars Chateau Musar: the whites A blend of two local varieties, Merwah and Obaideh. Both grapes are partly fermented in oak
barriques (25% new each year) where they mature for a further nine months. They are then
blended, bottled and aged for a further six to eight years before release. 2012 Chateau Musar  "Fine fresh-looking lemon-yellow, but shows reassuring maturity. Dry honey and spices on the nose; a controlled richness of fruit on the palate that reminds me of Ygrec: complex, dry but with sweetness in its DNA before natural acidity lifts the exotic aftertaste. Lanolin smooth but not easy to assess (and not meant to be at this stage). Young white Musar that retains its mystery." Steven Spurrier, Score: 18.5/20, Drink: 2020-2035 2000 Chateau Musar  "Medium depth golden-yellow; no maturity showing. Still very closed on the nose, subdued, with a light floral nettle aroma. A bit astringent on the palate, but with mellow, soft textures and good acidity too. Needs time. By the next morning, the nose had come alive. The palate was beautiful, like a spicy Petite Suisse cheese, with great length. Nose continuing to develop on day three." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18/20 1992 Chateau Musar  
"Deep orange gold. On the nose, beginning to mature and open up. Good depth and concentration. Lovely flavours of old Cheddar and surprisingly high acidity. Very good length on the aftertaste. Will age for a long time. After an hour in the glass, the wine started to develop characteristic honey aromas that also revealed themselves on the palate alongside a beautiful vanilla and beeswax aroma. The next morning saw it develop a rich, sweet, cognac-like nose; bone dry, powerful yet elegant on the palate with pronounced alcohol and a long finish. By day three, the middle nose had developed even more." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18.5/20 "The weather was terrible. We had winter until June. Hail came. Biblical weather! I tried to make a Chateau Musar red, but two years later found it wasn’t up to standard, so we distilled it. The best grape that year was white Obaideh." Serge Hochar 1975 Chateau Musar  "Deep orangey gold; looks like a late harvest wine in colour. Nose; wow! Incredibly intense, concentrated, dry, very deep and austere: a combination of leather saddles, barnyard and old mahogany musky characters with mouthwatering citrus orange acidity. Astonishing complexity and intensity on the palate, with a syrupy texture. Massive, deep powerful, concentrated and long. Delicious flavours keep changing like a kaleidoscope in this mouth-filling but elegant wine. On day two it had aromas of sweet Australian ‘Tokay’ and a bite of cognac-like alcohol." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20  1972 Chateau Musar  "Golden brass-yellow, very bright and alive. A superb nose with good depth and concentration, combining notes of apricot, brown sugar, cigar box and old charred wood. Unique. On the palate: a delicious, dry lean wine with a sweet finish and tremendous length. In perfect condition with a lovely lingering aftertaste. Very cerebral. Tastes of very old cellars. Day two saw an amazing development of the nose: very hard to describe but utterly riveting to the brain." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20  [All extracts from 'Chateau Musar: The Story of a Wine Icon' have been published online with the kind permission of the Académie du Vin Library.] Read more Editorial 

The rise of Chateau Musar is legendary. We take a closer look at the vintages that have cemented the Lebanese estate's enviable reputation in the hearts and minds of critics and collectors alike.

Exploring the vintages that have made Chateau Musar such a fine wine icon – from 1972 to 2013 

Chateau Musar tasting notes year by year

Think of the Golden State and you imagine sunshine, orange trees and top-tier surf. But this past week, I’ve seen crazy winds, dramatic (and welcome) rainstorms, below-zero temperatures and more snow than anyone in Napa has seen for 50 years. In a similar way, it’s all too easy to shoehorn the region’s wines. Big Cabernet. Buttery Chardonnay. Those, like the sunshine and surf, are the clichés. But there’s much more than cliché to California, an area as large as many countries, and the wines made here. Over 1,000 miles from north to south, with vineyards sitting at altitudes of 50 to over 2,000 feet, cooling influences from the Pacific and San Pablo Bay, complex ancient soils (up to 140 million years old)… California is far from simple. And you’ll find everything from Arneis to Pinot, Grüner Veltliner to Schioppettino. This week, we’ve been on the road, exploring Napa and Sonoma, talking to just a handful of the producers that have made California such a special place for wine-lovers. The scale of this landscape is grander, with a sense of space to breathe, the parcels of vines tucked in amongst hills and mountains, with the expanse of coastline just a short drive away. You can see why it was – and is – a land of promise.
 While Napa and Sonoma are firmly established as fine wine regions today, their history is comparatively short. George Yount (who gives his name to Yountville) is thought to be the first person to plant grapes for wine in Napa in the 19th century, while Charles Krug was the valley’s first commercial winery, founded in 1861 – closely followed by names such as Schramsberg, Beringer and Inglenook. By 1889 there were over 140 wineries in the area. But phylloxera struck, then Prohibition, and the thriving industry’s expansion was sharply curbed. Producers that survived that difficult period found loopholes in the law, such as unofficial home-winemaking kits and sacramental wine. After Prohibition’s repeal in 1933, it took time for the industry to find its feet. The Mondavi family – who bought Charles Krug – was integral to its development, but the focus wasn’t immediately on fine wine. Figures such as Georges de Latour, Louis M. Martini and André Tschelischeff started changing the story, but it was arguably Robert Mondavi – who struck out on his own to found the eponymous winery – who led Napa into a new era, championing it as a region that could compete with the Old World. Of course, the now legendary 1976 Judgement of Paris was the turning point. When California came out on top in Steven Spurrier’s blind tasting, the world took note. Soon the cult of Napa Cabernet was born, and as Parker’s scores swayed palates, prices soared. 
But it’s unfair to think of that as the region’s story – for there is much more to uncover beyond the sheen of those 100-pointers. While of course some producers come with the polish you might associate with Napa, almost every winery we’ve visited has been fast to focus on the vineyard, whisking us out to walk or drive through the vines. As an agricultural state (grapes – both wine and table – are only the second biggest crop here, following the dairy industry, and with almonds only just behind), farming is at the heart of its culture.
 And it’s ever more relevant, with the region at the forefront of climate change – as this week’s extraordinary weather conditions show. Drought is an ongoing challenge (although recent rains have replenished groundwater), and wildfires have stolen headlines – especially in the 2017 and 2020 vintages (expect much more from us on this soon) – ravaging vast swathes of land, the flames and the associated smoke taking both lives and livelihoods. Despite these challenges, there’s such excitement here – with an electric vitality to the industry. Land prices in Napa are enormous – over half a million dollars per acre for the best sites, and planting any additional land is almost impossible. But that isn’t stopping its evolution, with shifting farming, winemaking, varieties and styles as producers look to redefine modern Napa. Head west towards the Sonoma Coast, where the ocean breezes and fog are bone-chilling, and new frontiers are being forged. The skies here are moody, thick fog cloaking the view of this exposed area, but fields of sheep and cows are being replaced with vineyards as people push limits to create restrained styles, especially of Pinot and Chardonnay. 
We can’t thank producers who have swung open their doors to us enough. We’ve already had so many fascinating conversations about the trends and challenges in the region, about what people are doing in the vineyard and winery and why, and tasted some remarkable wines. Hundreds of thousands of people headed west in the 19th century, drawn to this corner of the land of opportunity. Many didn’t find their fortune in the Gold Rush, but this is still a place that holds such promise.  Reinvention and revolution is the Californian way, powered by a uniquely American entrepreneurship. Forget the scramble for treasure, today the bold and the brave are creating their own destiny – and it’s filled with hope.
 Read more Editorial


After a week spent touring some of Napa and Sonoma’s best wineries, exploring the Golden State and what makes it so special. Sophie Thorpe considers why – three centuries after the Gold Rush – California remains a land of opportunity

After a week of touring Napa and Sonoma, we consider how California wine producers are creating their own destiny – and exceptional wines

Wine’s land of promise – California

Land of promise: California

Quiet, even subdued, cautious, the Neal Martin on my screen is quite different to the garrulous character I’d imagined from his writing. On the page (or more often these days, the screen), Martin pokes fun at the wine industry, his articles often opening with satirical fiction that doesn’t hold back.  His reports and tasting notes are littered with music references (think Primal Scream and The Smiths rather than Wagner and Bach), and mentions that are sometimes pointedly popular – his first Bordeaux en primeur report for the Wine Advocate (taking over from Robert Parker) opened with a line from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. On our call, however, each word feels deliberate and considered, confident, but with a definite wariness that doesn’t quite fade.  Aged 50, the Vinous writer’s trajectory to wine stardom is unusual. Born in Essex, Martin grew up in a household that didn’t drink wine, so nor did he. In fact, he had no interest in it and blagged his way into the industry. In 1996, having lived in Japan, he applied for a role sourcing wines for a subsidiary of Japan Airlines: the only hitch that he didn’t know anything about wine at the time.  “I lied my way through the interview. I went to an off-licence the night before. Memorised some of the labels. I just reeled off a couple of names… [they] thought I was into wine and gave me the job,” he tells me, still rather bemused by their decision. Coincidentally Martin returned to the same shop last year, where unbeknown to him, his tale lives on as local offy legend – the famous wine taster that got his start right there in Leigh-on-Sea (with the owners even deeming him worthy of several selfies).  Unashamedly a terrible employee, he spent much of his time in his role for Japan Airlines starting his wine writing career (although it also sounds like there was a fair amount of lunching too). “I was kind of bored one lunchtime, bought a book on computer coding. I found I could make a webpage, and just kind of built the original wine-journal.com when I should have been working,” he says. From the novelty of creating a site, he started writing his own tasting notes. At that time the great wine writers were Michael Broadbent, Steven Spurrier and Hugh Johnson – English gentlemen, in short; charming, wonderful, but – for many – unrelatable, very “high culture”, as Martin puts it. He set out to be “more down-to-earth, funny, irreverent”.   “At the time, there was nobody else really doing that. There was this huge audience that liked to drink Bordeaux – but also liked Radiohead.” It struck a chord – and soon his self-built site was getting over 500,000 hits per month. No wonder therefore that in 2006 Robert Parker – then still at the height of his fame – approached the music-minded Englishman to join the Wine Advocate team.   Of course, Parker was renowned for not just the power of his palate and revolutionary points system, but for his personal tastes. Many argue that his preference for intensely ripe, high-octane, new-oak-aged styles shifted the entire world of wine – pushing producers to craft wines that would earn his favour. “Especially more to the end of his career, he had a certain palate… but people always forget that he reviewed German wines and Alsace and so on. So it becomes a little bit of a cliché,” Martin says of his once mentor.  The world of flavour is undeniably subjective, yet Parker was – by some – damned for just that, daring to express his personal preference. Total impartiality when it comes to the matter of taste seems impossible. After I ask whether or not he feels there’s room for bias in wine writing, Martin is clear: “I think a critic should stand up for what they believe in. Anyone can say the First Growths are great, DRC is great. I’d rather read someone who has a definite view on something, whether they like natural wines, or orange wines. Stand up for what you believe in. Then it’s up to the reader to decide.”  In fact, he goes as far to say, it’s potentially the lack of difference in views that has led to wine criticism becoming “a bit beige” in recent years – because now it’s a career, something upon which people depend for their livelihood. “It’s more of a risk if you say this famous name didn’t produce a great wine,” Martin notes. The danger of losing access to wines that are far beyond most critics’ budgets is a threat to the independence of wine writing, but also a massive obstacle to new voices in the industry. It’s an especial challenge given many of the wines Martin reviews – in particular older vintages – might only be pulled out at private dinners, hosted in producers’ homes. The very nature of wine – limited in production and fleeting in its consumption – leads to a reliance on the hospitality of its makers. Martin argues that for that exact reason the most independent “critics” are arguably those he describes as the “grands amateurs” – those who can afford to buy the world’s finest wines, and therefore say what they want.   Martin, however, feels there’s a line to be found where he can maintain distance yet be friendly – and, importantly, speak freely. He highlights Laurent Ponsot’s 2015s – which he gave relatively scathing scores – but, having known Laurent for many years, Martin was happy to tell the vigneron outright that he thought they were picked too late.  As for Martin, he had a lucky start with access to unbelievable wines in what he deems a “golden era” for fine wine in the 1990s, when top Burgundy and First Growths remained affordable for the many – and were poured freely by the trade. “I’ve never taken that for granted. Some of the wines I drink… they’re what my friends earn in three or four months. I never drink a wine and I’m blasé about it. But I’ve been around long enough to say what I think.”   Preserving his voice has always been of key importance to Martin – not willing to compromise on keeping his distinctively tongue-in-cheek tone, but also offer something more than just a tasting note. “When I joined Parker, it was an easy decision – he was a kind of god. But at the same time I wanted to make sure I could still write in the way I wrote,” he tells me. “Anyone can taste the wines and add a number, but for me it’s more interesting to create something that’s interesting, gives you insight… that’s the challenge: to write something people don’t expect,” Martin says. Does he feel he’s achieving that? His answer: “When my primeur report comes out, read the first three paragraphs and let me know.” [We spoke at the end of April, just before the report was published.]  For Martin, his love of music is integral to his work. Indeed, it seems that way – the record player and stacks of vinyl visible behind him on our Zoom call, his Instagram feed almost equally split between sleeve covers and labels – and he feels that it makes him a better writer. He looks back to Hugh Johnson (an avid gardener) or Michael Broadbent (pianist and art enthusiast) for precedent. “Wine can be a boring subject – but it’s when you put it with other things that it becomes more interesting,” he says.  Case in point is his recent article on Grand Mayne, he tells me: “It’s more about time, and parenthood, and… kind of sad in a way. To me, that’s the kind of counterbalance to the dryness about wine. It smells of strawberries and it’s 92 points. There’s the other side to the story – that’s the harder part to write, but for me it’s more satisfying.”  Indeed, he even self-published his book Pomerol (in 2012) to avoid the unwelcome interference of editors. In 2017, Martin made the leap to Vinous – joining fellow Wine Advocate alumnus Antonio Galloni’s new venture, and while he’s kept his voice, he’s also had to learn how to be edited “which was… quite a challenge for me at first,” he admits. “But actually now it’s something I really needed. I think they make better articles, it makes me think a bit more about writing.”  There have been a lot of bottles over the years (Vinous alone holds over 21,000 of his tasting notes), but it was a bottle of 1982 Montrose that started everything. “It wasn’t the best wine I’ve ever had by a long way… It’s a disappointing 1982,” he says. “Enjoy with modest expectations” reads his note from 2017 (88 points – upgraded to 91 points at his most recent tasting in 2018). Disappointing it may be, but it’s the bottle that made him sit up and take wine seriously, realising why people obsessed over it – although he’s clear that, for him, wine isn’t everything.  “Wine is my job – if it didn’t pay I couldn’t do it. I love wine, but I don’t think I’m obsessed with it. I don’t drink wine every day, and it doesn’t bother me if I don’t. If you think wine is everything, you’re missing something,” he says, frankly. I wonder how much this perspective has been shaped by Martin’s quadruple bypass surgery two years ago – a skirmish with the other side that has forced a visibly drastic lifestyle change, and about which he has been vocal.  In Martin’s own words, it’s a “bizarre set of circumstances” that set him on his wine-lined path, yet here he is, his pen and palate working in combination to make him one of the world’s most influential wine writers. While the golden era that allowed him to enter the industry might be over, he feels that – despite now being “very, very expensive” – in some ways wine is more accessible than ever.  “I meet so many more people from so many walks of life. I love it when you sit around the table and everyone’s from different countries. But as soon as you put a wine in front of them – everyone’s on the same level.” While one can’t argue that Martin champions the “everyman” reviewing the world’s finest wines, it’s remarkable in many ways that he hasn’t erred from his original purpose. Though the Essex-born critic doesn’t seem comfortable under the spotlight, on the page he’s at ease – free to fight against the pomposity of wine, with an irreverence and knowing self-ridicule that has put him front and centre in the industry – whether he likes it or not.  Read more Editorial 

Neal Martin – now of Vinous, previously the Wine Advocate – is one of the world’s leading wine writers. Sophie Thorpe talks to the determinedly off-beat critic about his path into wine and why there’s much more to life than brilliant bottles

Neal Martin – now of Vinous, previously the Wine Advocate – on his path into wine and why there’s much more to life than brilliant bottles

Neal Martin, striking a chord

Neal Martin: striking a chord

Stevens Winery

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