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  

I first sat down with winemaker Chris Phelps almost two years ago, diving into his remarkable journey. Having worked at the likes of Dominus, Caymus and Inglenook, it was chance – or maybe fate – that led him to establish his own wine label, Ad Vivum, in 2007.  He was sitting above a tank of just-fermenting fruit when he was struck by a “coup de foudre” – falling instantly for Sleeping Lady Vineyard, a site farmed by his good friend Larry Bettinelli. He bought the half-fermented must, and has continued to do so every vintage since.  The specific blocks that filled that tank sat up against the Mayacamas at the very top of the vineyard, which is the southernmost site in Yountville. Here, the vines are shielded from the blaze of the afternoon sun, preserving acidity and aromatics in the fruit, while a flow of underground water allows the site to thrive in even the driest of years. Each year, from just 1.5 acres of Cabernet Sauvignon, Phelps crafts another expression of the site.  The exact parcels have shifted very slightly over time. In 2007, the vines were all Clone 191 – the clone he felt was best on the site, but the block needed replanting so they started using fruit from an adjacent plot, planted with Clone 7. After a “carefully thought-out dance” balancing the two plots, the 2024 vintage marks a return to using fruit only from the original plot, now replanted with Clone 191 (and known as Clone 34, which is genetically identical to 191).  Phelps left his day job (working for other wineries) at the end of 2023, finally able to focus exclusively on Ad Vivum, as well as a newer project with his son Josh (Coil Wines). Although we’d tasted the current releases before, earlier this month we were able to taste a trio of back-vintages for the first time. They reinforced how special this site is, as well as Phelps’s talent when it comes to capturing it in bottle.  The three vintages we tasted were 2016, 2017 and 2018 – three very different years in Napa. All three, however, manage to combine great freshness with Napa polish – creating wines that are surprisingly approachable already.  2016 Ad Vivum  In Phelps’s words, 2016 was “a classic Napa vintage”; the weather was warm at the end of June, allowing the vines to focus on fruit ripening, while autumn brought cooler weather. Phelps harvested from 7th October, fermenting in 21% new French oak (the rest in stainless steel), with a total of 19 days on skins prior to maturation for 18 months in 65% new French oak. It has always had “a seamlessness”, Phelps noted, and that’s certainly true tasting the wine.  The nose offers sweet, dark fruit, graphite purity and hints of lifted florals as well as an herbaceous edge. The palate is linear and pure, with mouthwatering acidity and a savoury core of ripe fruit, sweet cassis and ripe tannins that provide a drying grip on the finish. Although the oldest of this mini-vertical, it almost feels the youngest and will certainly benefit from additional time in bottle. A blend of 56% Clone 7 and 44% Clone 191 Cabernet Sauvignon.   2017 Ad Vivum  The 2017 vintage is one that will forever be remembered for its wildfires in Napa, although fortunately Ad Vivum wasn’t impacted by them. After an early budbreak, the growing season was marked by three heatwaves – in mid-June, at the end of August and in mid-September. Having a cooler site, shaded from afternoon sun and with sufficient water reserves was key for Phelps. He harvested from 5th October, bringing in 55% Clone 191 and 45% Clone 7 Cabernet. It was fermented in 25% new French oak, spending 20 days on skins in total (Phelps noted how easily colour and tannin came in this hot vintage), before being aged 17 months in 70% new French oak.  The nose here is bright and perfumed, combining sweet dark fruit – black cherries and blackcurrant – with floral lift and pencil lead. There’s a glorious purity to the fruit here, which follows through onto the dense yet fresh palate, displaying a juicy elegance. There’s a satisfying chew to the tannins, firm yet velvet-like, framing the waves of fruit that flow towards to the long, saline finish. Mouthwatering and moreish, this is hard to resist now.  2018 Ad Vivum  Although the 2018 vintage in Napa started with relatively late budbreak, cooler, even temperatures made for a long growing season, and producing relatively plentiful yields – yet without any dilution, thanks to the extended season. Phelps harvested from 17th October, with the blend moving back towards around two thirds Clone 191 Cabernet from the original block and a third Clone 7. Fermented in 25% new French oak, Phelps left the 2018 on skins for 23 days – slightly longer than other vintages, feeling structured fruit needed more time to reach its potential, echoed with its maturation in 75% new oak for 20 months. Phelps notes how generous this wine has been from the beginning, but has developed further opulence and depth in bottle.  This is a beautiful wine: the nose is intense, exuberant with dark fruit and a satisfying herbaceous edge. Although the blackcurrant and black plum fruit is beautifully ripe and smooth, there’s bright acidity that brings gorgeous freshness – making for a lithe and vibrant palate. The tannins are round and sleek, lending effortless structure, while there’s a saline, savoury edge to the long finish.    Explore all current Ad Vivum listings, including a mixed case of 2016, 2017 and 2018, or read more about California   

Since 2007, Chris Phelps has been working with just 1.5 acres of Cabernet Sauvignon in Sleeping Lady Vineyard in Yountville. The resulting wine is Ad Vivum, a beautiful expression of this special site. We sat down with Phelps to taste through a mini-vertical of the project 

Exploring Chris Phelps’s Ad Vivum Napa Cabernet Sauvignon wine from Yountville’s Sleeping Lady Vineyard through three vintages, 2016, 2017 and 2018 

Tasting Ad Vivum Napa Cabernet Sauvignon – 2016-2018 

Tasting Ad Vivum: 2016-2018  

“People seem to like it,” says Callie Louw in his thick Afrikaans accent. The winemaker behind Porseleinberg shrugs, casual about his wine’s success. Since its first vintage in 2010, this Swartland Syrah has rapidly become one of South Africa’s best and most sought-after, much to his bemusement, it seems.  The 173-hectare estate is rugged and wild, sitting atop the Porcelain Mountain (Porseleinberg in Afrikaans) in the Swartland. The first vines had been planted here in 1997, with wines previously marketed under the Schonenberg label. Louw first came across the site while at Rustenberg, who sourced fruit from there – the bunches and individual berries were so tiny that Louw thought at first that the owners weren’t giving them the best fruit (although he may not have put it so politely). But those miniscule bunches were all these rocky schist soils, with almost no topsoil, could muster. However small the yields, the quality and concentration was enough to convince Marc Kent (Managing Partner and Technical Director at Boekenhoutskloof) to buy the farm in 2009 – and he approached Louw, who was then working at Tulbagh Mountain Vineyards (now Fable Mountain Vineyards), to develop the property.  The team instantly set about a massive planting program and there are around 90 hectares under vine today. Most of the fruit was destined for Boekenhoutskloof’s flagship wine, The Chocolate Block, but with 4.5 hectares of older plots and a ramshackle shed-cum-winery, Louw – with Kent’s blessing – decided to do something different, and Porseleinberg was born.  “It’s a really special site,” Louw says, explaining how the vines sit on almost pure bedrock with just a skin of topsoil over the blue schist. “We’re effectively farming little bonsais here.” It tells you just how challenging this site is that only half the vines they planted in 2009 survived; but the results are clearly worth the effort. And they weren’t the first to recognise the site’s potential – as well as Rustenberg (where Adi Badenhorst was then winemaker), Eben Sadie had sourced fruit from the property for Columella in 2000 and 2001. While the wine came originally from just 4.5 hectares, today there are 14 dedicated to Porseleinberg, with the first of the younger vines coming on stream from 2013. When Louw arrived in 2009, the vines were dry-farmed – and he managed to get 3.5 tons/hectare of fruit in 2010. But the yield was a tiny two tons the following year; it was clear that dry-farming just wasn’t an option for this site, the soils too poor to hold onto the water – if the skies even gave any. “Schist is actually spelt wrong, it’s supposed to be s**t,” Louw says, laughing. Despite the need to irrigate, he’s well aware of the costs involved – particularly given any water they use needs to be pumped seven kilometres and up the mountain. During the drought between 2016 and 2018, the river they use for irrigation dried up, Louw’s house water ran out in May – and police were patrolling water sources. There’s no avoiding how precious a resource water is here.  The site had been farmed organically and Louw continued this, however in 2016, when they looked to plant another 45 hectares, he wanted to make sure that he gave these new plantings the best chance – and be able to farm organically in the long term. As of 2023, the property is once more certified organic, having been able to return to the process in 2020. And it is firmly in the vineyard that Louw focuses, feeling not just that quality comes from the vine – but from the soil, as he gradually looks to build the level of organic matter. “The only thing that I can do better is farm better,” he says.  The winemaking is relatively simple and hands-off (as Louw says, “I’m quite proudly lazy in the winery.”) – but has evolved over the years. Louw uses 100% whole-bunch, although the fruit is crushed lightly (previously by foot, now by being run through a pump) to avoid carbonic fermentation and its more confected aromas. The fermentations are all native, with alcohols generally sitting between 13.5 and 14%. Maturation is in a combination of foudre and concrete, and varied more over the first four vintages as Louw figured out what worked (with the 2010 and 2011 vintages aged in concrete only). While some of the early vintages spent up to two years in concrete and oak, he has reduced this to 12 months (from 2014), favouring more time in bottle prior to release instead.   Although the wines are decidedly fresh and balanced, the pHs are naturally high – between 3.7 and 4.1, with most vintages sitting at the higher end of that spectrum. Given the risks of bacterial spoilage that this brings, SO2 levels are relatively high (around 100ppm total) – something Louw feels is essential for wines that are absolutely built to age. And that’s something that has long set Porseleinberg apart.   “I’m still wearing the pants I bought in 2004 – I know nothing about style,” Louw jokes. There’s no shortage of brilliant new-wave South African wine, however most are built to be open and approachable in their youth – not necessarily glou-glou, but leaning into the lighter style of reds that has become fashionable. Porseleinberg was, at least at first, decidedly not. The earlier vintages are stern and serious, and need(ed) significant time to resolve and soften – it’s that style (whether Louw would describe it as such or not) that has earned the wine the moniker “Cape Cornas”, a style that is both thanks to the natural intensity of the low-yielding site and Louw’s love of old wine.  But the 2018 vintage brought a significant shift – one that has taken Porseleinberg to new heights. Louw visited a friend who was working at Domaine Jamet, and saw how rather than using punch-downs or pump-overs, they submerged the cap throughout the fermentation and maceration, allowing them to extract more gently. Most winemakers might have trialled the technique on a parcel, but not Louw – who says, frankly, “I put my chips all in.” He returned to the Swartland and set to work, making his own plates to hold the cap in place during fermentation. Fortunately for him, the gamble paid off.  The more recent vintages display more perfume, precision and finesse, without sacrificing the almost fearsome structure that makes them so age-worthy – and, as Louw says, it means he does even less work in the winery (“I fit about one more beer in a day,” he says, smiling). While earlier vintages were more about their tannic framework, the fruit, Louw suggests, is more present now – covering the tannins in the wines’ youth.  When I ask Louw if he wishes he’d used the submerged-cap technique from the start, his answer is no. “It’s amazing to grow up with the wine,” he says. And somehow that makes sense, for this is clearly a very personal project. Although Boekenhoutskloof might own Porseleinberg, it is run and managed totally separately. During our conversation and as we taste through a complete vertical, back to 2010 (the first time Louw has ever had the chance to do so), it is clear that this is not just a wine from this specific place, but also from this specific wine-grower. Over 12 vintages, the style evolves, the variation between years shining through, but the mineral backbone and structural imprint of this site remains. It’s a remarkable wine, and one that is only set to get even better as the vines age and Louw builds on his experience. Ignore it at your peril.  Tasting every vintage of Porseleinberg: 2010 to 2021 2010 Porseleinberg: From the original 4.5 hectares, the first vintage of Porseleinberg offers a savoury, bloody, iron-rich nose, with an edge of herbal, menthol notes and dried red fruit. The immense structure is still present, although the tannins have softened with over a decade in bottle. That structure is complemented by a bite of fresher, dark fruit and juicy acidity. Aged for 16 months in 65% foudre and 35% concrete.  2011 Porseleinberg: This wine still feels young, the nose brooding with dark fruit, leather and liquorice, the palate tightly packed with intense, black-berried fruit and a chalky grip of tannins. With the year’s conditions only two tons per hectare were harvested, the smallest crop ever from the site – and given the small volumes this was never released, with only 800 bottles made. Aged for 24 months in concrete egg.  2012 Porseleinberg: This is more supple and soft than the 2012, with a savoury and saline profile. There’s more elegance than the first two vintages, with dark, intense fruit yet with an appealing purity, complemented by notes of tobacco spice and liquorice allsorts. Only 2,760 bottles were made. Aged for 12 months in concrete egg.  2013 Porseleinberg: The fruit here is distinctly different – sweeter strawberry with a touch of herbal eucalyptus alongside savoury hints that point to the beginnings of tertiary development. It’s incredibly concentrated, structured and compact – a wine that is built for the long-haul. Aged for 24 months in 60% foudre and 40% concrete.  2014 Porseleinberg: The 2014 was one of the more open vintages in the line-up, from a particularly wet year and late harvest. The nose entices with an earthiness, a dusting of cocoa, deep red cherry and chocolate-covered strawberries. There’s a juicy purity to the palate with a chalky grip and savoury, smoky edge to the long finish. Aged for 12 months in 100% foudre.  2015 Porseleinberg: This is still a little reductive, and will benefit from additional time in bottle. As this reduction blows off, it reveals a fynbos-accented nose of dark fruit. From a cool vintage, the palate is a tight ball still – intensely mineral and chalky, with impressive purity, but it’s not yet revealing its potential. One to watch. Aged for 12 months in 90% foudre and 10% concrete egg.  2016 Porseleinberg: The 2016 vintage brought the driest winter in decades and another tiny crop. The wine is full of sweet red fruit, but there’s a firm, stony minerality to the nose, as well as floral and spicy tones that give it lift. There’s a fine-boned framework here and gorgeous freshness. Aged for 12 months in 70% foudre and 30% concrete egg.  2017 Porseleinberg: The 2017 vintage is sweet and concentrated; offering both a swarthy dark profile and a sweet, red-fruited intensity. It’s tight and bold, with an iron backbone, firm tannic structure and a powerful finish defined by its dark fruit and minerality. Aged for 12 months in 70% foudre and 30% concrete egg.  2018 Porseleinberg: The 2018 vintage is the first in which Louw used the submerged-cap technique – and there’s an instant shift in the style of the wine. It’s brighter, more aromatic with more intense herbal and spicy notes, while the palate is layered with juicier, crunchy red fruit that masks the tannins. The finish is long, spicy and mineral. Superb. Aged for 12 months in 90% foudre and 10% concrete egg.  2019 Porseleinberg: This vintage saw a break in the drought for South Africa, with rainfall around average and a relatively cool growing season. The nose here is dominated by herbs and spice – green peppercorn, dried rosemary and sage; leading on to a palate that offers pure red-berried fruit. There’s a mineral, chalky, furry grip of velvet tannins that frames the generous cherry fruit, with a saline mineral finish. Delicious. Aged for 12 months in 90% foudre and 10% concrete egg.  2020 Porseleinberg:  The 2020 vintage was warmer and the wine speaks to that – with richer and darker fruit character that dominates its profile. The warmer conditions have added a polish to the wine, with more open feel, despite the trademark structure that sits behind the fruit. The wine is a little reductive at this stage, and needs more time to unfurl. Aged for 12 months in 90% foudre and 10% concrete egg.  2021 Porseleinberg: The latest release of Porseleinberg is unsurprisingly impressive, but with a finesse that suggests it could be Callie Louw’s best vintage to date. A long, cool growing season with sufficient rainfall resulted in a leisurely harvest in 2021, allowing the team to take their time to pick. Since the shift to submerged cap in 2018, quality here has leapt ahead. The 2021 shows a spicy, mineral intensity – with the fruit more subdued, taking a backseat to the stony structure and texture of the wine. It’s supple, flowing across the palate like silk, yet with a super-fine grip of mineral tannins and the shy fruit that points to its immense age-worthiness. Savoury herbal tones mingle with the red fruit, while there’s a saline freshness and spicy pepper tones that linger on the long finish. Amazingly approachable now, it will only improve with a couple of years in bottle and continue to evolve over the next 15 years or so. Aged for 12 months in 95% foudre and 5% concrete.   Browse all current listings of Porseleinberg 

Porseleinberg has become one of South Africa’s most collectable wines. As the estate releases its 12th vintage, Sophie Thorpe tastes through a full vertical and talks to winemaker Callie Louw about what makes the site, and wine, so special

Porseleinberg is one of South Africa’s most collectable wines. We taste through a full vertical of the Swartland Syrah and talk to winemaker Callie Louw

An icon in the making – Porseleinberg

Porseleinberg: an icon in the making

Whilst for some of us a trip to Italy still seems far away, this postcard from Florence provides us all with inspiration for our future adventures. As a wine lover and epicurean, how would you best spend 24 hours in Florence? 
I’m a great epicurean or as we say here in Italy I’m completely into “dolce vita”. Florence has so much to give that after one life spent here I’m still surprised and astonished by the beauty you can find behind every corner. I love to have an early morning walk along the Arno river, there is a very easy path that follows the two banks.  Walking from bridge Santo Spirito to San Niccolò bridge and back when the city wakes up gives me cheerfulness and the good mood to start the day. A good espresso in one of the many caffetterie on the way and life smiles! If the day is not too hot I’ll probably climb the hill of Michelangelo from the San Niccolo gate and enjoy the best view of the city from Piazzale Michelangelo and the church of San Miniato. 
 At this point, I’ll probably descend from “via dell’erta canina” for a sandwich and a glass of wine at “Fratellini”, one of the oldest and most traditional kiosks of the city! Ill end the day resting in Boboli garden, the Medici private backyard of Palazzo Pitti before heading to “Santino” for a classic aperitivo in the smallest and cutest bar of the city. 
What are your top drinking spots in the city? 
When it comes to wine Florence has a lot to offer. The best places to enjoy a class of wine will be the Sesto, terrace bar of the Excelsior Hotel or the rooftop bar of Hotel Lucchesi, both with an amazing view and great wine lists. But my favourite place is Aurora, our new winery in Fiesole, with an amazing terrace overlooking the city of Florence, Chianti and the hills that frames the city. What is your favourite neighbourhood restaurant in the city?
 I love the traditional restaurant Cammillo, it is one of the oldest Trattoria of the city, still managed by the same family. It is chaotic but the atmosphere is warm and the menu rich of traditional dishes hard to find elsewhere. 
 What is your favourite dish they serve? 
Trippa alla Fiorentina, amazing! 
What are the culinary specialities of Florence and the surrounding area? 
Florence has a very rich cuisine, starting from aged salami, cheeses and charcuterie like finocchiona (made by the leftover of the pigs), but also pasta and soups like Ribollita (winter black cabbage and bread soup) Pappa al pomodoro (summer tomato and bread soup) or Tagliatelle that could be served with Cinghiale (wild boar) Lepre (hare) but the king of our cuisine is the Bistecca Fiorentina, a 2 kg steak served rare to medium-rare and made of Chianina beef. But don’t forget desserts like “Zuppa Inglese” or Cantucci and Vinsanto, the best way to end a heavy meal! 
If budget was not an issue where is the finest place to dine in Florence? 
Easy to answer: Enoteca Pinchiorri (three-Michelin), amazing food and probably the best wine list in the world. I’m very linked to this restaurant, it was my very first client in the world and for a few years Pinchiorri got all my production of Colore purchasing until the last drop of the wine! 
Florence has some world-class cultural sites. What is your favourite place to visit? 
My top three are: the Uffizi museum, you can’t leave Florence without a view of Venere and Primavera of Botticelli (and a good coffee on the rooftop bar of the museum), Santa Maria del Fiore (the duomo) with the adventurous walk to the top of the church and last but not least a visit to Fiesole village with its beautiful monastery. 
Is there an off the radar place in Florence that visitors should not miss? Florence can be very touristic and loud during high season but there are some places a bit off the radar like the “Giardino delle Rose” (the roses garden) beautiful in spring with hundreds of different roses or when open the Forte Belvedere with the Garden of Villa Bardini. 
 Florence is closely situated to the world-class wine regions of Tuscany – Where are the best places to visit for scenery and to discover the wine country? 
I will base myself on the hills overlooking the city, Fiesole can be the perfect base to visit the city and get out of the crowd when necessary. And from there move to Chianti Classico, Panzano in Chianti and Castellina are two lovely villages 30-40 mins away. If the plan is to visit Bolgheri or Montalcino better to base yourself on the coast or Siena. 
Where is the best place to enjoy your wines in Florence? 
I’m proud to say that our wines are considered the “local wines” in Florence, my winery is the closest winery to the city and I have been privileged for this reason, I’m the Florentine winemaker and my wines are very easy to find in most of the places in Florence. I get the occasion to toast to all our friends that I am sure I will be able to meet here again soon with a good glass of wine. Read more Editorial

We checked in with winemaker Bibi Graetz, whose winery set in the foothills of Florence, looks out over this magical city. Born and raised in the city and being the closest winery to Florence, we thought who best to ask for his top tips when visiting 

We caught up with Bibi Graetz, maverick Tuscan winemaker, about his top tips when visiting the region

Interview with Florence winemaker Bibi Graetz

Bibi Graetz: Postcard from Florence

In Sicily, for the feast day of San Giuseppe, they make a soup, a very plain soup of 
chickpeas, fava beans and wheat grains, all soaked and cooked separately before 
being combined with bitter wild greens and perhaps some broken pasta. It is a 
celebration not of poverty but in poverty. The richness of the meal comes from the 
time it takes, the hours of soaking and boiling, of picking leaves in muddy fields. 
The feast day of the patron saint of workers (and the stepfather of God) falls on 
the 19th March, full spring in the Sicilian countryside with the almond trees in 
blossom. San Giuseppe’s soup marks the last use of the previous year’s harvest, 
the last pulses and grains to be taken from the store which the summer’s baking 
heat and the rains of autumn had provided for the coming winter. It is both a soup 
and a celebration, but it is also a sacrifice – a sacrifice of time against an uncertain 
future, time given freely as a kind of guarantee. Cooking of any kind – but especially the lengthy processes of preserving, drying, 
pickling and curing – is really an act of optimism, an assertion that there will be a 
future in which to eat. And the more time and care you put into such a process, the 
more value you get out. For example, the longer a cure or a pickle takes, the longer, 
in general, it will last. In providing food for the future, this sacrifice also makes 
it much more likely that the future it was made for will indeed occur. A practical 
optimism, you could say. A spending of time, not just because you have little else 
to spend, but because it is prudent to do so. For much of the world now, of course, the situation is reversed: we can buy almost 
anything we want at any time we please and have it delivered almost immediately. 
And we seem to be encouraged to spend less time doing things like cooking. 
Time is a commodity, and rather than sacrifice our time, we’re encouraged to 
sacrifice time itself, to take shortcuts. Time is listed in any given recipe, along 
with the rest of the ingredients and equipment: two onions, one stick of celery, 
one carrot, 15 minutes preparation and two hours cooking time, but it is almost 
always consequently manipulated. Everybody knows – once they have followed 
a few recipes – that enough time is never given to cook an onion. ‘Sauté until soft 
and golden, about two minutes,’ writes the chef (or the editor insists so the recipe can fall into the category of ‘quick and easy weeknight suppers’ or ‘fifteen-minute 
meals’ or whatever it is they are currently trying to sell). The fact that nobody ever
sautéed an onion until soft and golden in less than 10 minutes is elided, sacrificed 
to the promise that this dish, now, will not cost too much of your time. Even recipes 
which can never be made quickly – soups, stews, cures – are touted as demanding 
just a little of your time and even less of your attention, your active time. The slow 
braise allows the cook to focus not on cooking, but on other things. To me, this 
is a lost opportunity. Yes, it is nice to know that dinner is safely squared away, 
puttering merrily to itself in a low oven. It is exciting to think that a jar of cabbage 
is slowly transforming into sauerkraut at the back of a dark cupboard. But if all we 
see is the prepared ingredients and the end result, how much do we miss of the 
metamorphosis in-between? Convenience is desirable, but over the last year, time has – for most of us – come at 
less of a premium. Even before that, though, I have always found a certain satisfaction 
in giving my complete attention to whatever I am cooking. This goes without saying for 
the quick and fast – for the doneness of a steak, or pasta, for deep-frying, or grilling 
delicate fish. However, it is also rewarding for the slower processes, for observing the 
slow changing of textures as liquids bubble and reduce.  If, for example, you are making marmalade, you could work out the setting 
temperature and, once the final boil has begun, insert a probe thermometer with 
an alarm set to sound when it reaches the precise temperature: all well and good. 
If, however, there isn’t a thermometer to hand – or, as is often the case, you only 
have one that is in sore need of calibration and therefore useless – you can fall 
back on the finger test your mother may or may not have taught you. Placing a 
stack of saucers in the fridge and – when you think the marmalade is nearly ready 
– spooning a little out onto a cold saucer, you prod the result with your finger to 
see if it wrinkles. What, then, if you don’t have a stack or even a single perfectly 
chilled saucer to hand? Then you have to watch the bubbles rise. 
The point of making marmalade or jam is not simply that you are cooking a liquid 
until it reaches approximately 105˚C, but rather that you are cooking a liquid until 
it becomes capable (as water is not) of reaching that temperature – which means it 
has to become thicker, stronger. The bubbles it creates, at first double the liquid in 
volume (bringing the inevitable worry that your pan is too small) before settling and 
lowering into a dense boil that threatens to catch on the bottom. Once you’ve seen 
it, that transformation is unmistakable, and if you had just stuck a thermometer 
in the pan and got on with something else, you would never have noticed. This 
(admittedly useful and in a working kitchen, essential) piece of technology would 
have removed you from the process, from the facts of cooking. This is true of any kind of technology – it is, by and large, its purpose. I am not necessarily suggesting 
that you replace your oven with a wood-fired stove and monitor the temperature 
with a questing hand (if you can’t hold it in there, it’s hot enough) – although that 
would, I think, be fun. Certainly, anything which makes our lives easier is not to be 
dismissed out of hand, but isn’t it always worth wondering what, at any moment, 
you can afford to lose? 
The point with cooking is that the time put in is not simply lost but rather spent 
or, invested – although sometimes you might not think it – wisely. A six-hour 
braise consumed in less than 30 minutes can seem hardly worth the effort, but 
only if you see the eating of food as the sole reason to cook it. When I think of 
meals I have cooked for other people, for birthdays or holidays or simply for 
the pleasure of company, it is rarely the eating of them – the few minutes of 
attacking a chicken or slurping up pasta or licking grease off fingers – which 
comes immediately to mind but rather their slow build-up. It’s the digging of the 
pit to build the fire that has to die before I bury the lamb, wrapped carefully in 
foil and sackcloth; the careful attendance to a boiling pan of stock, its bubbles 
changing in size and consistency as it gradually reduces into gravy; the oil 
slowly spitting out of a pot of ragù, its surface barely moving as it stews. These 
are the things I remember fondly, the nurturing process of bringing a meal 
together. And these moments aren’t solitary meditations – with any meal there 
is more to be done than just cooking something. There are salads to be made 
and dressings to be whipped, pasta to be rolled, tables to be set, cocktails to be 
mixed, and wine to be poured. The making of a meal is only a chore if you begin 
to do it wishing it were already over. If instead you begin to do it because you 
want to do it, with the end result of ‘something to eat’ as almost a by-product 
of a rewarding activity, then the pleasure you find in it changes. 
Although for most of us, it’s no longer – as it was for the Sicilians celebrating 
San Giuseppe – a matter of life or death. This choice to involve yourself 
purposefully in the everyday act of cooking, and otherwise preparing food, still 
has an air of sacrifice, of time exchanged in the promise of something greater. 
It is, I suppose, literally a sacrifice, as the time you allot to cooking is time 
you could have made available for emails, or exercise, or simply to idly scroll 
through Netflix adding films you will probably never watch to your list. But, as 
is the way of all such propitiatory acts, it is a sacrifice which contains the seeds 
of its desired outcome. What you put in determines what you get out, in the 
straightforward terms of a meal you can eat – but it is also its own reward. You 
know, as you reverently chop, or soak, or simmer, that you are investing your 
time to create something better than good. That whatever you are making will 
have a special richness to it. The richness of chickpeas, or water or gold.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Margate-based chef and food writer, Thom Eagle, contemplates the value of spending more, not less, time in the kitchen.

Illustration by Stewart Walton.

Margate-based chef and food writer, Thom Eagle, contemplates the value of spending more, not less, time in the kitchen

FONDATA: Time for Food

Time for Food

Alsace – Olivier Humbrecht Food and wine are taken very seriously indeed in Alsace and Olivier has provided a wealth of options to consider. Worth noting, Alsace has more Michelin-starred restaurants than anywhere else in France. Top recommendations for wine lists at reasonable prices in the region are Tavernes lsacienne in Ingersheim and Restaurant de la Gare in Guewenheim. The best for food /wine list combo would be Villa Lalique in Wingen sur Moder, Chambard in Kayserberg. Table du Gourmet (1 Michelin Star) in Riquewihr and Auberge Bouc Bleu in Beblenheim. For a special occasion, don’t miss Aub de l’Ill (€€€) in Illhausern, which is a 2 Michelin Star restaurant. It was in fact a 3 Michelin Star restaurant up until recently but for Olivier it still is very much a 3 Star and worth the visit. 
Burgundy - Christophe Roumier "If you consider Burgundy to be larger than only the Cote de Beaune and Cote de Nuits, then my favourite restaurant is certainly Aux Terrasses in Tournus, which although only one Michelin Star, has a lovely creative cuisine full of energy and based mainly around local produce. The wine list is just perfect, although, like many places, it's full of young vintages. I like this place a lot! Closer to Beaune, one of my favourite restaurants is Hostellerie de Levernois for the high level of its cuisine and its very accomplished wine list. But here the place is a little more fancy." Brunello di Montalcino – Gianlorenzo Neri The most authentic place in Montalcino area is Trattoria Il Pozzo or Il Leccio in Sant'Angelo in Colle (a village in south area of Montalcino). Inside Montalcino village do not miss Il Giglio, Alle Logge di Piazza, and Drogheria Franci. For special fine dining you must try Osticcio. The best wine lists in town are at Il Giglio (you can find very old and rare vintages of Brunello from great wineries) as well as Drogheria Franci (same ownership of Enoteca La Fortezza who have an extensive wine list to choose from). Do not miss "Pinci" with meat sauce or pecorino cheese and pepper (in italian "cacio e pepe"), it is the typical pasta of the area, or "Peposo" which is a braised beef meat cooked in
a Brunello sauce. Santa Barbara – Matt Dees (Jonata & The Hilt) For dinner I would recommend the El Encanto restaurant which has beautiful sweeping views across Santa Barbara city. The food is awesome too. Don’t forget to stop off at the Mercado Ice Cream Parlour too. This place has got to be making some of the best ice cream in California. The Lark is pretty awesome. My personal favourite is Ca’Dario, a sort of no thrills Italian restaurant - the food is really authentic. We also have some of the best Mexican food being made in the US. These restaurants really are some of the jewels of the city. I love El Bagio
but there are loads of great ones to choose from! 
Chablis – Olivier Bailly – Domaine Billaud Simon Too few people make the one hour drive from the Cote d’Or to Chablis; the region is an overlooked culinary hot spot that offers exceptional value compared to the Cote d’Or. Olivier Bailly’s favourite restaurant in Chablis is Au Fil du Zinc for "the precision" of the Japanese Chef. According to Olivier, "he produces very good French cooking with a Japanese influence". Le Syracuse is another restaurant he recommends for the quality-to-price
ratio: "it is excellent!" 
Burgundy - Veronique Drouhin Veronique Drouhin also recommends the Bistrot du Bord de L'Eau in the commune of Livernois (just outside of Beaune). She describes it as “delicious, fairly priced and a lovely location both indoors and outdoors if the weather suits". Another recommendation is the L'Hermitage de Corton, just outside of Beaune, on the way to Aloxe Corton. Again it offers "delicious food at a good price in a beautiful setting... plus
the owners are delightful". If you find yourself in the centre of Beaune, Drouhin recommends Le Carmin, “a one Michelin star restaurant, worthy of the star”. For 'bar and tapas' style evening with friends, her pick is the gastro-bar Maison du Colombier. Another recommendation in Beaune is Le Bistrot des Cocottes: “nice, fun, very good”.

For any true epicurean, a list of top restaurants requires serious deliberation. We asked some of our favourite winemakers from around the world to give their recommendations, including Olivier Humbrecht, Christophe Roumier, Gianlorenzo Neri and more…

Winemakers Olivier Humbrecht, Christophe Roumier, Gianlorenzo Neri and more name their top restaurants

Where winemakers eat, part one

Where winemakers eat: Part one

“I want to struggle,” says Cristiana Tiberio, earnestly, as we talk in London. This Abruzzo winemaker has rapidly become one of Italy’s most fashionable names. Thanks to her hands-off approach in the winery, she’s a darling of the natural wine scene, but is also earning top scores and rave reviews from the likes of Eric Asimov (The New York Times), Antonio Galloni (Vinous) and Ian d’Agata. But, as I found talking to her, she’s far from complacent.  Cristiana fell in love with wine as a teenager. Her father, Riccardo, was friends with Bruno Giacosa and the legendary Piedmontese producer’s wines were her favourites. She noticed early on that wines made with the same grape from different sites tasted totally unlike each other. “Wine was an infinity world,” she tells me, still with a touch of whimsy – and it was a world that she set her heart on exploring. When the time came, she set off to study chemistry at university – looking to the science behind wine rather than more practical oenology. Before she knew it, however, she’d been diverted, ending up with a PhD in photochemistry, far from “the infinity world” she’d committed to. So she quit. Instead, she travelled the world, working with various top producers, including Jacques Selosse, Nicolas Joly, Egon Müller and leading names in Chablis, before returning to Abruzzo in 2004.  In the meantime, her father Riccardo had found a special parcel of land in the mountains near the town of Cugnoli, with an abandoned plot of Trebbiano Abruzzese – the indigenous grape that had largely disappeared from the region. With its large, juicy berries and thin skins, this variety is more susceptible to fungal disease, can be challenging to ripen and lose its bright acidity if not picked at the perfect moment. Trebbiano Toscano (ubiquitous across much of Italy, and in France under the guise of Ugni Blanc) had replaced many plantings – favoured for its small berries, ability to accrue sugar easily and retain its moderate acidity.  This abandoned vineyard had survived largely because of its unique site – with canyons to the south and west, meaning a wind blows through the vines constantly, clearing the humidity and reducing disease risk. It was also planted in the traditional Abruzzese pergola system, with two vines planted at each post, wider (four-by-three-metre) spacing, providing competition but also forcing the branches to grow longer, meaning a larger canopy, aiding photosynthesis and therefore ripening. Now 95 years old, these ungrafted vines had also endured thanks to their fortuitously sandy soils (a neighbouring plot, on marly clay, had to be replanted on rootstock, and is now around 80 years old).  While the Trebbiano Abruzzese was the lure of this site, much of the property Riccardo purchased was unplanted. Today, Tiberio has 30 hectares of vines, all in one contiguous parcel – with additional woodland, as well as alfafa and wheat fields, all part of the family’s championing of biodiversity. And, as much of the area hadn’t been planted, the property hadn’t suffered from industrial farming – meaning the soils were already healthy, however preserving it is at the forefront of what Tiberio does.  The vineyards are divided between Trebbiano Abruzzese, Pecorino and Montepulciano – a fraction of the various grapes permitted in Abruzzo, but – importantly for Cristiana – the ones that were historically native to their mountainous terrain. They only planted with massal selections – something Cristiana feels is key. She argues that clones sourced from vine nurseries are designed to be planted anywhere, sacrificing anything “native” in the name of disease resistance and/or yield. “For me, historical heritage is everything in the wines,” she explains. On a more practical front, she finds that massal selections cope better in difficult vintage conditions, adapting more easily. As evidence, she points to a plot of ungrafted vines that she planted in February of this year (2024), explaining how despite the extremely dry conditions, the vines survived – entirely unirrigated.  While Cristiana clearly values the traditional pergola training, she has chosen to use guyot training for most of their vines. The old vines – largely used for Fonte Canale and Archivio – are under pergola, however she doesn’t feel it’s right for everything. When it comes to Pecorino, she explains how the variety naturally grows vertically, meaning pergola-training would force the vine into an unnatural shape, impact sap flow, and therefore quality. As for Montepulciano, while they have 2.5 hectares (used for Archivio) under pergola, she feels that the pergola system can push the grape’s rustic character – the thin skins with less phenolic ripeness (due to shading) at risk of producing more easily extractable, less refined tannins. For her, guyot elevates the flavour profile of the grape and helps balance the potentially aggressive tannin, avoiding it being too “loud”.   Cristiana’s brother Antonio is in charge in the vineyards, where they work organically. They briefly trialled biodynamics, however have veered away from using the preparations, along with any fertiliser or seeded cover crops – keen to avoid adding any outside inputs that aren’t “respectful of their terroir”, as Cristiana puts it. The winemaking continues this philosophy, with indigenous yeast, almost no new oak across the range (just 30% for the Archivio bottling), the wines unfined and unfiltered, largely avoiding temperature control where possible, and SO2 only added at bottling.  Although organic, they aren’t certified – something she feels strongly about. She explains how both dedicated, small growers and “big, industrial” producers can bear the same certification, while one’s farming is considered and artisanal, yet the other is borderline conventional. It “certifies our attitude and we stay lazy”, she tells me. “We stop struggling with our mind to find what is better for our terroir,” she says – something that she is anxious to avoid, keen to continue striving, pushing and working to do better, rather than tick a box and move on.  And that work is not merely intellectual. Having just finished harvest in Abruzzo before touching down in London, she was soon flying off to Oregon – squeezing in a second northern-hemisphere vintage at a property there. It’s a chance to learn, and few 50-year-olds seem to be quite as restless as this one. While Tiberio is a family venture, it’s not one that was passed through the generations – something for which Cristiana is grateful; she has been able to choose her site, choose the wines she’s making and define her own philosophy – one that is now resonating loud and clear around the world.  The Tiberio range  The regional wines  Trebbiano d’Abruzzo: Tiberio’s entry-level Trebbiano Abruzzese comes from three hectares of 75-year-old pergola-trained vines, those that were grafted 14 years after their oldest (dedicated to Fonte Canale). Only made with free-run juice, it’s fermented and aged in stainless steel.  Pecorino Colline Pescaresi: The vine material for their Pecorino was selected from a few old vines on the site, but comes from a 3.8-hectare plot planted in 2001 and guyot-trained. Only made with free-run juice, it’s fermented and aged in stainless steel. These are some of the oldest Pecorino vines in the region and the wine is unlike the modest Pecorino you may have previously tasted – ageing impressively.  Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo: This rosato is very special. It comes from nine hectares of Montepulciano, planted in 2001 and Guyot-trained. Made with free-run juice (with no maceration whatsoever) and only seeing stainless steel, it’s a perfumed and bright style of rosé that can and should age.  Montepulciano d’Abruzzo: This is the largest production cuvée, coming from 15 hectares of Montepulciano – both older pergola-trained vines (62-year-old) and younger Guyot (planted in 2001). As with the other entry-level wines, it only sees stainless steel, spending 15 days on skins.  Single-vineyard bottlings  Fonte Canale: Arguably Tiberio’s most sought-after wine, Fonte Canale is pure Trebbiano Abruzzese from 736 ungrafted, 95-year-old vines, spread across around two hectares of sandy soils. (They currently aren’t replanting the individual vines when they die, as don’t want to plant grafted stock, but are cautious of fragile young ungrafted vines attracting phylloxera.) It was first made in 2012, with these ungrafted vines needing time to recover from their previous neglect. The combination of site and variety produces wines with modest alcohols (often 12-12.5%) and naturally low pH (the 2018 is a mere 2.7pH!), giving a backbone of taut acidity (as Tiberio says – “not raw, but flavourful acid”). The site’s indigenous yeast produces a cool ferment (reaching maximum 23̊C) and a wine that doesn’t need racking post ferment, with little reduction. The malolactic is naturally blocked by the low pH and the wine only sees stainless steel – “to allow this wine to express its meaning”, Cristiana says. This stunning, vibrant white is a pure expression of a special site – one that ages beautifully, with its old vines almost overpowering vintage. If any further praise were needed for this wine, it has featured on the list at Massimo Bottura’s Osteria Francescana since its first release.  Colle Vota: First bottled separately in 2014, this vineyard is always the last to be picked. Planted in 2000 with massal selections from their old Montepulciano and guyot-trained, Tiberio finds the berries have thicker skins but release less during maceration (around 20 days). She also finds the tannins in the stems different here so is using a small portion of whole-bunch fermentation in the blend. Again with only free-run juice, the wine doesn’t see any oak whatsoever. Coming in a Burgundy-shaped bottle, this is the lighter of Tiberio’s two Montepulciano bottlings, but still with a firm tannic backbone, but with more delicate perfume.  Archivio: Launched in 2017, Archivio comes from the property’s 60-year-old pergola-trained Montepulciano on clay-rich soils, where the wind helps thicken the skins. Tiberio finds that the fruit has thinner skins from the middle of the pergola system, so these bunches are harvested separately. With thinner skins, the ferment has more lees and more reduction, needing oxygenation, so this is the 30% that goes into new oak to give it the necessary air. The bolder and firmer of the two Montepulciano bottlings, it is bottled in a Bordeaux-style bottle to indicate its ageing capacity – a wine that Tiberio confesses can be “monolithic” in youth, but offers great potential.  And coming soon… Quarmarì: A new single-vineyard Pecorino from 2023, this wine takes its name from the family dog, who passed away a few years ago. The wine has – so far – only been tasted by Ian d’Agata, who wrote that it is “a wine so amazingly good and unique that it will shatter all you thought you knew about the grape and what it can deliver”. Given how good even the entry-level Pecorino is, we can’t wait to try this.  The vertical tasting Pecorino  2006 Pecorino Colline Pescaresi: It’s hard to believe this is close to two decades old – the wine vibrant, lively and juicy with lean lemon freshness to the palate. There’s a suppleness to the body, yet it’s taut and mineral, and more honeyed and herbal notes emerging with air.  2009 Pecorino Colline Pescaresi: The 2009 Pecorino is instantly open, giving sage, thyme and honey on the nose, alongside fresh white peach. On the palate, however, it shows its restraint – still fulsome but with a mineral backbone that makes it feel youthful.  2013 Pecorino Colline Pescaresi: Leesy and mineral, this is almost reminiscent of mature Chablis or Blanc de Blancs Champagne – with a honeyed, chamomile edge. The palate is waxy and long, with a herbal lift to the finish.  2015 Pecorino Colline Pescaresi: There remains a creaminess to the nose here – the wine tighter than the 2013, with a limey, lean purity and plenty of energy.  2019 Pecorino Colline Pescaresi: This is strikingly different after the 2015 – much riper and more exotic, with apricot, peach, mango and orange peel. Combined with the wine’s viscosity, there’s something Viognier-like, however there’s still brilliant, mineral energy here, with tight, citrus-edged acidity.  Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo  2022 Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo: It will be amazing to see this wine develop. The nose is restrained – you can feel the potential behind. Gradually wild strawberry and bright raspberry emerge, alongside delicate rose petal florals. It’s tightly wound with immense energy to the flinty palate, a minerality driving through its core into the long, mouthwatering blood-orange finish.  2020 Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo: Deeper-coloured than the 2018, the 2020 has a brighter nose – with raspberry sherbet, strawberry laces and a creamy richness. The acidity again is in the driving seat, the palate chalky and mineral with lemon freshness and a slight phenolic grip that frames the crunchy red fruit.  2018 Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo: A surprisingly deep pink (especially given this is made only with free-run juice), with a copper hue. This was a real highlight of the tasting. The nose combines a flinty minerality with a funky, savoury, almost cheesy note, alongside dried cherry and rose florals. The palate has a line of bright acidity and a mouthwatering lemon finish. Very serious rosé that deserves bottle age.  Fonte Canale  2021 Fonte Canale: From a very dry growing season, this is such a baby. The nose is mineral with notes of pear skin, white florals, lime pith and cordial, with riper apricot emerging. It’s vibrant and full of tight, lemony acid, driving on to the chalky finish. Precise and pointed, there’s crisp apple and herbal freshness, with a saline edge.  2020 Fonte Canale: At first with a touch of gunflint reduction, the smokiness gradually lifts to reveal a tight and lean expression of Trebbiano d’Abruzzese – all citrus and mineral, needing time and air to reveal itself fully.  2019 Fonte Canale: The nose here combines vibrant green apple, greengage and lemon with a sea-spray freshness. It’s still limey and tight on the palate, but with a soft, full weight too – with generous yet tangy, white-pear fruit on the mid-palate, before tightening up on the saline, mineral finish.  2018 Fonte Canale: Dried herbs mingle on the nose with more hedonistic fruit – peach and green mango,, with real weight to the fruit here. There’s still the bite of piercing lemon acidity, surrounded by fleshier peach fruit.  2017 Fonte Canale: This feels much more closed in comparison to the 2018, with pure citrus energy, tangy, pure and limey, but with a slight creaminess mingling with the tart fruit. It’s concentrated and full of promise, but not giving much away now.  2016 Fonte Canale: Waxy and bright, the 2016 is full of energy. Pure flint, Meyer lemon and grapefruit pith, with more delicate white florals all vie for attention, while the palate is all about pure crunchy apple, minerals and its vibrant acidity.   2015 Fonte Canale: The nose here is complex – with notes of honey, chamomile, tarragon, bruised apple and a praline richness. The palate, meanwhile, feels brilliantly youthful, with lime sherbet and chalky minerality driving long into the mouthwatering finish.  2014 Fonte Canale: This was closed at first, with subtle floral tones of apple blossom and honeysuckle dancing on a background of lemon and pear flesh. The palate has that familiar drive of acidity leading into the impressively long, saline finish.  2013 Fonte Canale: Fresh cashew mingles with lemon sherbet on the subtle nose of the 2013, a wine with lift and energy. The palate is lively and long, with the finish offering honey, herbal notes and sweet hay.  2012 Fonte Canale: The first ever vintage of Fonte Canale, it was a real treat to try this special wine. The nose combines rosemary and thyme with candied lemon peel, as well as more honeyed notes. The palate is lithe and vibrant still, with a stony purity and saline finish.   Colle Vota  2020 Colle Vota: This combines juicy dark fruit, sweet spice, baked plum and violet florals. Rich black and red cherry fills the palate, with an edge of dried herbs and the scent of nutmeg. The tannins are savoury and firm, with a chalky freshness and zesty edge to the acidity.  2019 Colle Vota: The 2019 offers floral lift, with brighter cherry and raspberry fruit. Less savoury than the 2020, the palate is tight and mineral, yet with a softness to the mouth-filling fruit, all cut by juicy acidity.  2018 Colle Vota: This is drastically different to the 2019, offering an aromatic profile of baked strawberry and tea leaf – almost lapsang souchong. The chalky minerality stands out here, with high, piercing acidity giving the wine backbone.  2014 Colle Vota: There’s a significant colour change moving from the 2018 to the 2014 Colle Vota, while the nose reinforces this shift with leather and damp undergrowth sitting alongside dried red fruit. The tannins have softened and are supple, while the acidity still refreshes and cuts through the fruit.  Archivio  2020 Archivio: Savoury and rich, this is a powerful, dark, compact Montepulciano d’Abruzzo that needs time. It is intense and structured, full of tight bramble fruit and drying tannins, but with an impressive line of acidity at its core.  2019 Archivio: This is much more open than the 2020, with a sweeter, more red-fruited profile, and more overt sweet spice. Dried herbs and incense complement the bramble fruit. There’s a firm chalky grip to the tannins, tightening up as the structure announces itself on the palate, yet with mouthwatering acid keeping things balanced.  2018 Archivio: The sweet, baked red fruit of the vintage seems to carry through both of the reds in 2018. There’s a softness to the fruit, yet still power behind. It’s full-bodied and firm, yet the most approachable of the trio of 2018, 2019 and 2020, with fresh, juicy acidity.  2017 Archivio: There’s a touch of maturity just starting to show here, with the first hint of sousbois and leathery richness, an almost tarry character, sitting alongside the sweet plum, baked blackberry and smoke. The tannic framework stands strong, even seven years on, needing additional bottle age to round out.  Explore all current Tiberio listings or read more about Italy 

Few names in Abruzzo have become as sought-after as Tiberio, best known for her single-vineyard Fonte Canale, Colle Vota and Archivio bottlings. We sat down with Cristiana Tiberio herself to talk about the project – and taste through a vertical of these extraordinary, category-defying wines

Sitting down with Cristiana Tiberio, cult Abruzzo winemaker, and tasting a vertical of Fonte Canale, Colle Vota, Archivio wines

Cristiana Tiberio – advancing Abruzzo

Advancing Abruzzo: Tiberio

Colin Scott should be one year into his retirement. After 47 years at Chivas Brothers, 31 of which were spent as the Master Blender, he should be enjoying a well-earned rest. Instead, the ebullient Scott is lighting up the screens of the FINE+RARE team as he talks about a certain 50-year-old blended whisky he has created for remarkable spirits curators The Last Drop Distillers.   “It’s just fantastic to come to The Last Drop and find these nuggets of gold and all these wonderful casks of very precious liquid that have phenomenal complexity and flavour,” Scott says with unabashed glee.   Despite his near-50 years in the whisky industry, this is only the second 50-year-old blend Scott has had a hand in producing. Well-aged whisky was, until relatively recently, only a small part of Chivas’ business.   “By the time we’d filled a cask and it had matured to 12 years, most of that went into Chivas 12. Once it reached 21 years old, we put it all into Royal Salute. So, there was very little maturing. But of course, as time goes on, the stocks have been held back and the super-premium part of the inventory has grown.”   Scott joined Chivas Brothers in 1973 and became their fifth Master Blender in 1989. But he would have to wait a further 13 years before a 50-year-old whisky project presented itself. The result was The Royal Salute 50 Year Old, released in 2002 – a dual commemorative bottling for Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation and Royal Salute’s 50th anniversary.   Today he’s talking about his latest 50-year-old creation, The Last Drop’s 22nd release and first in-house whisky: a 50-year-old blended Scotch. After a whole three months as a man of leisure, the “retiree” joined the Sazerac-owned company as their first Master Blender in autumn 2020.   “When I joined in September last year, it was really the beginning of finding out what all these nuggets were within the inventory. Sorting through the very special and remarkable casks and finding out a little bit about what they were and what they did and how we could bring them together.”  Scott explains that everything in the blend started out as either a single malt or a single grain whisky, distilled at different distilleries around Scotland over 50 years ago. “At various stages along the way, blends have been made but then of course the balance has been put into cask and stored away for further maturation. So, what we have is a mixture of some of these malts and grains, all with their own unique characters and flavours, that we bring together at the last moment.”   Tasting the blended whisky alongside Scott is like being escorted on a journey back through time – to an age when a lot of distilleries were doing their own maltings and adding peat to the kiln to get a little smoky flavour.   “To me, blending is all about taking the flavours and then balancing them,” he says. “What you have here on the nose is a tsunami of flavour. But, when you taste it, nothing actually lingers and stays on top.”   Scott encourages tasters to add water to remove the aggression of the alcohol and maximise the release of the aromas and characters. When he is tasting more than 50 samples around a nosing table, this trick is vital to reduce all the whiskies to 20% alcohol and allow the flavours to present themselves.   In the case of The Last Drop 50 Year Old, its mellowness, richness and depth means you don’t necessarily need to cut the 48% dram.    “When we blend, we don’t add something, sniff it and then add a bit more of that. What we do is actually write down the whole formula in its entirety. We then pilot blend it. When we add the last addition, it will change the balance of everything you have already. So, you don’t know the final answer until you add that last part of the formula. And then once you’ve got them all together you can evaluate what you have actually created.”  For Scott, the act of blending and evaluating is an entirely personal thing. “All whisky – grains, blends – are fantastic. They are all different and they all bring their own song to the party. The only reason one is better than other is your own personal experience.”   Scott, for instance, isn’t “a fan” of the smoky Islays. “I don’t think they’re bad,” he adds. “It’s all about personal taste. There’s not a bad whisky in the world.”  The Master Blender talks at length about whiskies having different personality traits that require nurturing and, ultimately, respect.   “If you take a single malt as distillate at birth – that has a flavour package. It’s like you when you’re born – you have a character. If you put that new distillate into a cask, over the years this distillate will react with the oak in the cask and take influences and nuances which will then promote other flavours in the new spirit.  “So as time goes on, the volume actually goes down, the strength goes down, but that flavour package actually intensifies and intensifies and multiplies and multiplies.”   When it comes to age, there is some debate about how old you can go. For Scott, the 50-year-old is undoubtedly a rare beast, but he doesn’t see any reason why you can’t go older and rarer if the whisky has been sufficiently nurtured.   “If the angels didn’t interfere, in a quality cask, you could take it to 60-, 70-, 80 years,” he says. “If you’ve got quality casks, you don’t get that wood influence. You get a little touch of the oak but what you have at the end of the day is this small amount of highly intense, complex flavoured whisky that started as the new distillate and just grew with all the different influences from the oak and the cask whether it is Sherry or Bourbon.”  While there have been scientific advancements during Scott’s career, he says there are still a great many unknowns about the maturation and flavour process, and you get the impression this only adds to the allure for him.   “Because it’s nature, we don’t actually know what’s going on,” he adds. “It’s massively complex and the technical people still don’t know the number of components in Scotch whisky. I think they’re up to about 800 now. When I started there were about 200.”   Regardless, you sense Scott will continue to do what he does best: respect, nurture and blend remarkable liquids – retirement be damned.   Browse all Last Drop listings or read more Editorial 

As he approaches his 50th year in the industry, Colin Scott tells Holly Motion about the allure of well-aged whisky and plundering The Last Drop’s remarkable spirits inventory 

The Last Drop Distiller's Colin Scott on the allure of well-aged whisky and his new role plundering the independent bottler's archives.

Bewitching blended whisky

The bewitching blend

Saute-Loup

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