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  

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

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

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

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

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

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

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

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

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

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

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

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

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

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

Raymond Blake on the Côte d'Or

It’s four centuries since the Giraud-Hémart family first began farming vines in Aÿ, writing the first chapters of an extraordinary legacy.   Although they started out as tenant farmers, the Church granted them a swathe of land in the 17th century – with François Hémart the first member of the family to be registered in the parish records. The modern history of the family, however, starts in the 20th century, when a soldier by the name of Léon Giraud was garrisoned in Aÿ and fell in love with Madeleine Hémart. The couple soon married and had a son, Henri Giraud, moving into the property that the family still lives in today.  At the time, vineyards across the region had been abandoned in the wake of phylloxera and Léon set about replanting three hectares of vines. For 300 years the family had been growing grapes and selling the fruit, but after Henri returned from the Second World War, he and his father decided to start making their own wine – establishing the Giraud-Hémart label. The business grew and evolved, especially after Claude Giraud (Henri’s second son) arrived in 1972, aged just 20. Working with his father over the 1970s and ’80s they rejigged the vineyard holdings and acquired additional holdings to make up the 10 hectares they own today, as well as changing the property’s name to Champagne Henri Giraud.   In 1990, they started buying in additional fruit to meet demand and made their first vintage of Fût de Chêne – the wine that became Argonne from the 2002 vintage. Although in the 1990s the family was ageing wine in oak, it is only in the 21st century that they started working exclusively with oak from the Argonne forest – now integral to the House’s identity.  The Argonne forest was historically the source for much of the wood used in Champagne, home to over 150 coopers, but was gradually abandoned, suffering from particular damage during the Second World War. Henri Giraud has made it a mission to restore and protect the forest, working with the French National Forest Office (ONF) on a replanting program (and have planted over 60,000 trees to date). The House feels Argonne oak is a key part of their terroir – indeed their top wine takes its name from the forest. The poor, dry soils of the forest mean oak trees grow particularly slowly, resulting in a particularly tight grain, creating a delicately flavoured wood to complement the delicate wines of Aÿ.  Today, the business remains a tightly knit family affair – with the 13th generation running the show. Emmanuelle Giraud is at the helm of the House, having taken over from her father Claude, who while not officially part of the business remains present and involved in key decisions. Emmanuelle’s sister Anne le Golvet-Giraud was drawn to therapeutic practices, launching the property’s trademark Craÿotherapy – chalk-based wellness program offered at their in-house hotel (they were one of the region’s first producers to welcome visitors for tastings and now to stay). It is Anne’s husband, Sébastien le Golvet, who is in charge of the winemaking.  “It’s very important to always be curious, to seek something better from the wine, from the grapes,” Giraud tells us. No one embodies this philosophy at Giraud more than Le Golvet, a force who, since he arrived in 2002, has pushed to experiment and innovate both in the vineyards and winery. Over the last two decades, he’s introduced residue-testing on their soils to confirm their triple-zero approach (zero pesticide, insecticide or fungal control spraying – something they feel is more impactful than organic certification and have long pioneered), banished stainless steel from the winery (using only terracotta and wood) and toasts every barrel the House uses himself. Constantly looking for new ways to elevate the wines further, he has recently created and started using custom barrels with sandstone heads. As Emmanuelle tells us, his philosophy is firmly that, “The best wine will be the next one.”  Henri Giraud manages to balance being at the cutting edge with the patience that traditional-method sparkling wine requires. As Emmanuelle explains, they have to make sure everything is perfect from the moment the grapes are harvested – for any mistakes will be discovered in a decade’s time. While she’s concerned with broader strategy and planning for the business, when it comes to harvest-time, you’ll find her on the winery floor, managing fruit receival, each and every year, seeing the culmination of the year’s work.  Being independent and family-owned allows them the luxury of a truly long-term vision. Each vintage they make trials, the results of which will only be revealed in 10 years’ time, but they’re investing far beyond that – planting 12,000 trees in the Argonne forest each year, making sure that Henri Giraud will still be able to use this special oak in two centuries’ time. The House’s extraordinary wines reflect this vision, testament to their relentless pursuit of quality and remarkable attention to detail. Who knows what the next 400 years will bring – but it will certainly be worth following.  Explore all current Champagne Henri Giraud listings, including the amazing MV10, disgorged in 2017, or read more about Champagne and sparkling wine  

The Giraud-Hémart family has grown vines in Aÿ for 13 generations – starting to make wine under their name in the 1950s. Today Champagne Henri Giraud is one of the region’s smallest houses – and one of the few to remain family-owned. Here, we dive into the property’s heritage with Emmanuelle Giraud 

The Giraud-Hemart family has been growing vines since 1625. Today the family’s descendants run Champagne Henri Giraud – we dive into their legacy and wines 

Celebrating 400 years of Champagne Henri Giraud 

Four centuries of Champagne Henri Giraud 

2021 Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Nuits, Louis Auguste, Domaine David Duband  
This wine, named in honour of David’s son, Louis Auguste, comes from higher-altitude sites and some of the domaine’s oldest vines (over 55 years in age). In 2021, it’s spicy and lifted – offering a mouthful of pure, crunchy red fruit. It’s fresh and mouth-watering, building to a savoury, smoky finish. Superb value.  


2021 Gevrey-Chambertin, Charles van Canneyt  
This village bottling is an excellent entry point to Charles van Canneyt’s range – especially if you can’t get your hands on any of his Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat wines. The 2021s may be the best vintage to date of his négociant label, with a line-up of elegant and vibrant wines that offer great value. The village Gevrey-Chambertin is a wine of such finesse – with a lifted, perfumed nose. But behind the aromatics, there’s a more serious palate, with persistent, focused fruit, and vivid acidity driving through the core of the wine. The long finish is scented with delicate florals. 


2021 Gevrey-Chambertin, Domaine Duroché  
Because yields were so low in 2021 (due to frost and hail in the north of Gevrey), Duroché’s 2021 village Gevrey includes fruit from Le Clos, Champ, En Vosne and what little survived the hail in Premier Cru Champeaux. All Duroché’s vines are old, and for this cuvée, they were all planted between 1930 and 1986. The nose is perfumed and floral, but it’s the palate that really sings – with a tight energy and ripe, round mouth-feel. A gentle toastiness (with 15% new oak) coats the sweet, red cherry fruit. This vibrates with potential – the finish long, saline and mouth-watering. A brilliant introduction to the Duroché style. 


2021 Savigny-lès-Beaune, Premier Cru, Aux Guettes, Domaine Jean-Marc & Hugues Pavelot  
This vineyard sits just below the forest, with only 30cm top-soil over the hard rock below. The Pavelot plot (a mere 0.35 hectares) shows a totally different side to Savigny – brighter and lighter, with vibrant red fruit and a creaminess (with 25% new oak). The nose is full of raspberry and cranberry, with a welcome, sublime freshness thanks to this more “traditional” vintage. The medium-bodied palate is mineral and elegant, with great tension. The oak is well-integrated, bringing extra weight to the mid-palate, building to a vibrant, long finish. This is a top wine – classic and airy, as Burgundy used to always be. 


2021 Givry, Premier Cru, Clos Marole, Domaine Joblot  
Clos Marole is one of the few survivors from a catastrophic growing season at Domaine Joblot, with yields slashed by 50%. But – even if there’s not very much of it – the wine is superb. You’re instantly struck with vibrant, fresh red fruit, blackberry and crushed strawberry – possibly thanks to the old vines (on average 40 years old). The oak (35% new) needs a little more time to integrate fully, but is well-judged. Relatively light-bodied, the palate is driven by great acidity and silky tannins. The finish is long and suave. Enjoy this delicious wine young, but it has everything to keep for a decade or more.  


2021 Morey-Saint-Denis, Premier Cru, Clos des Ormes, Domaine George Lignier  
Domaine Georges Lignier is the largest owner in Clos des Ormes, with almost two hectares of the Premier Cru, all on calcaire comblanchien. The nose is pretty and perfumed with sweet spice notes courtesy of the oak (around 25% new). The fruit is bright and crunchy, yet there’s a darker, more brooding aspect on show – with a powdery tannic structure adding texture to the pure, long palate. An impressive result in the vintage.  


2021 Coteaux Bourguignons, L’Eclos des Abeilles, Domaine de Bellene  
Nicolas Potel only made 6,000 bottles of this wine in 2021 (instead of 20,000 normally) – yet it’s once again excellent for what is “just” a Coteaux Bourguignons, rivalling some top village appellations. The fruit for this great-value cuvée comes from cooler vineyards on the limits of the Bourgogne appellation in Nantoux (where the vines are 80 years old), Saint-Romain and Nuits-Saint-Georges, classified as Coteaux Bourguignons (an appellation more often associated with reds). The wine is mainly Chardonnay, however there’s a sprinkling of Aligoté adding extra zip.  The nose is honeyed, fresh and mineral, with the palate crisp at first, with clean acidity and superb balance. It rounds out with toasted almond and citrus, building to a long finish that brings a generous dimension of complexity to the wine. It is almost ready to drink now. A superb effort from Potel.  
  
2021 Puligny-Montrachet, La Rue aux Vaches, Alvina Pernot  
This was a particular highlight of our tasting – offering a very different style to Clos des Noyers Brets. Versus the soft purity of Clos des Noyers Brets, this is both more mineral and with a riper core of fruit – juicy white peach and apple, but with a bright, zesty green edge to it, and the very slightest hint of toast. The texture is richer and creamier, offering a pleasingly round yet beautifully elegant mouthful. Long and nuanced finish. This was bottled exclusively in magnum – with just 146 produced.   


2021 Saint-Aubin, Premier Cru, En Remilly, Louis Jadot 
In 2021, there is just one barrel of this Premier Cru – and it’s exclusively available from FINE+RARE. Pithy with flinty, mineral tones that complement an almost orange-zest lift. Behind the citrus and minerals though, there’s a core of fresh, white-peach fruit and toasty, spicy oak that lingers on the finish. The concentrated core is balanced by vibrant acidity, with that creaminess rounding out the lithe palate. Delicious.  


2021 Chablis, Grand Cru, Les Blanchots, Domaine Long-Depaquit  
Domaine Long-Depaquit has 1.66 hectares of this cool Grand Cru. They managed to make just 20% of a normal crop in 2021, the region’s yields drastically reduced by cruel April frosts. This was a particular highlight of our tasting – with an intense, taut, lime-and-lemon profile. Although the fruit verges on lean, there’s a brightness to the wine too. Notes of chalk, oyster shell and Granny smith apple are complemented by a creamy, round character. The finish is long and zesty – classic, pinpoint Chablis. 
 Browse all available Burgundy or read more about the vintage 


The grandest names in the Côte d’Or might be the most desirable – but there’s much more to the region beyond the very top appellations. Here we highlight 10 of the wines that we think offer the best value in 2021 

Discover the 10 best-value wines from our tastings of the Burgundy 2021 vintage so far – from up and down the Cote d’Or

The best-value wines in Burgundy 2021

Burgundy 2021: top-value buys

Reports coming in last summer of the long drought that hit Burgundy had many writing off the vintage before it had even been picked. What then turned out to be the earliest harvest on record did nothing to calm those concerns. Many of the vignerons themselves were concerned about how the wines from this unique growing season would turn out. Preceding one of the most challenging seasons in the region’s history (2021 being beset with frost, rain, disease… you name it, it happened), everyone is looking back at 2020 and wondering what they were worried about. It is abundantly clear that 2020 produced some magnificent wines, with exceptional balance, freshness and full fruit maturity, yet that also remain very Burgundian in style. There is very little not to like. How it happened is a lot less clear, but we heard plenty of theories, that – while not completely consistent – go at least some way to explaining the vintage. While the vignerons don’t know for sure why the wines turned out the way they did, how they got there is by the by: these are extraordinary wines. Tasting the vintage While we tasted as many wines as we could up and down the Côte d’Or and beyond, due to the complications of the late 2021 vintage, some vignerons were still busy finishing off the harvest when we visited. The late harvest has also impacted the timing of winery work, delaying the racking process, meaning some of the wines weren’t able to be tasted or were in a slightly awkward place. While the breadth of tastings was therefore a little more limited than usual (with more analysis to follow), we still came away with a good hold on the vintage. On the whole, the wines we did taste were brilliant both in white and red, with a little more consistency among the whites. Pinot Noir struggled more with the drought, while the Chardonnay seemed almost unaffected. Despite the early harvest and slightly contracted growing season, both the whites and reds we tasted were fully phenolically mature. Even though the vines shut down due to the heat, there was no evidence of greenness at all. Some vignerons kept to the traditional 100 days between flowering and harvest – others were down to as little as 90-95 days, with some believing this to be the “new normal”. Benoît Stehly, winemaker at Domaine Georges Lignier believes that 2020’s drought had the same effect on the grapes you get when fruit is dried. “A dried apricot is both sugary and rich in acidity,” he says. “The dehydration of the berries concentrated the sugar,  flavour,  fruit and the acidity. It is the reason why the freshness of the 2020s is so good.” He contrasts it with 2018, another “hot vintage” but with more summer rain. “The alcohols were high and the acidity low in 2018 because the vines never shut down.” Bouchard’s Frédéric Weber echoed this. “The grapes’ maturity was stopped by the drought,  but this was positive, as there is greater natural acidity and natural freshness to the wines.” The expanded range at Alvina Pernot in 2020, a range of taut and mineral Chardonnays The whites The white wines we tasted were exceptional – with fantastic balance, great acidity and wonderful concentration, but moderate alcohol levels, when compared to the more exuberant 2019 and 2018 whites. So many vignerons were keen to point out the low pH levels and very high concentration of tartaric acid – reminiscent of the 2014s, but these wines have so much more flesh too, making them easy to enjoy already. They are less skinny and austere than the 2014s, yet have the energy and equilibrium to age beautifully. What is not to like? Guillaume Boillot at Henri Boillot highlighted the salinity and dry extract in the whites, making them “hyper dynamic and balanced”. He noted that the acidity is thanks to the vines shutting down – something which only happened to the Chardonnay. Frédéric Weber explained that the Chardonnay resisted the heat better, having very high tartaric levels and a pH that is the lowest since 2014 (at 3.1-3.2), creating classic wines. “The balance is perfect,” he said. As Olivier Lamy (Domaine Hubert Lamy) and Francine Picard (Au Pied du Mont Chauve) pointed out, the picking date was key for the whites, as the grapes were ripening very quickly – gaining around 1% potential alcohol in just two days. From our tastings, however, everyone seemed to get this right. Producers were particularly happy to have full cellars when it came to whites – with many coming close to the legal maximum in terms of production. Michel Pernot (Domaine Paul Pernot) feels that the generous yield was key to the fruit not being over-ripe, adding that in 2003 the yield was half of that in 2020 – and therefore overly concentrated and cooked. For Michel's daughter Alvina Pernot, it’s the best vintage she and her husband Philippe Abadie have made to date. Michel echoes the sentiment, saying it was simply “magnifique”. From what we’ve tasted, they’re excellent: vibrant wines that are a little more generous than 2014, but with brilliant precision and ageing potential. Amongst the vines in Chambertin Clos de Bèze The reds The variation in picking times for Pinot Noir emphasised how different parcels matured differently – whether due to microclimate, location, rootstock or access to water. It accentuated just how varied Burgundy’s landscape is, as well as vignerons’ own tastes. Charles van Canneyt (Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat) remarked that people were picking Pinot in the same vineyard up to a month apart. With moderate alcohol levels from all but a few producers, it certainly wasn’t racing sugar levels that forced an early harvest, but that the season started early and stayed so right through to harvest. It was down to the vignerons to dictate the style of their wines. In the Côte de Nuits, there were local rain showers in early August which Erwan Faiveley believes favoured the Pinot Noir particularly in Nuits-Saint-Georges, Chambolle-Musigny and Vosne-Romanée. This rain in early August, he believes, not only refreshed the vines but stopped the vines shutting down – helping with the phenolic development of the grapes and increasing the sugar levels, which resulted in higher alcohols, concentration and added freshness. Others around Vosne and Chambolle were grateful for a later rain shower on 28th August, which Lamarche, Hudelot-Noëllat, Gros Frère & Soeur and Georges Noëllat all believed was essential in pushing the grapes through to full phenolic maturity and providing the wines with added finesse. Again, the proof was in the pudding and the wines from Georges Noëllat, Hudelot-Noëllat and Lamarche were easily some of the finest we tasted. Up in Gevrey-Chambertin and Morey-Saint-Denis, the likes of Duroché, Tortochot, Georges Lignier and Domaine des Lambrays all chose to pick before the rain. Again, there was no concern here regarding greenness, with exceptional fruit concentration and clarity. Pierre Duroché believes his 2020s to be the densest wines he has ever made, but balanced with amazing acidity. It is certainly an exciting line-up. All in all, there’s more of a range in styles among the reds. In general, the fruit sits more in the red than black spectrum, bright and crunchy, with vibrant acidity and alcohol levels that tend to be closer to 13-13.5% (around 1% less than 2019 in many places). As Charles van Canneyt noted, it’s more classic than 2018 or ’19, while Nicole Lamarche praised the finesse and elegance of the year – something that certainly comes through in her wines. Producers are divided as to whether they prefer 2020 or 2019, although the majority consider 2020 the greater year. David Duband describes it as “fresher, straighter, more serious” than 2019, while Nicolas Potel (Domaine de Bellene) thinks it’s easily in the top five vintages he’s ever made, and will prove more homogenous than its predecessor. Cyril Audoin in Marsannay and Nicolas Potel both highlighted that it was a vintage that will always be open. While undoubtedly the wines have everything needed for cellar ageing – beautiful balance, silky tannins, vibrant acidity and the necessary concentration – they are already very appealing, and seem unlikely to shut down in bottle. Calm in the light-filled winery at Faiveley In the winery 
So, how did producers adapt to the year in the winery? Guillaume Boillot said it was “easy” – and he wasn’t alone, especially in the wake of 2021. Due to the year’s dry conditions, the fruit was so healthy that vignerons didn’t even need to use a sorting table. Because the fruit was harvested in such hot temperatures though, many highlighted the need to pick only in the mornings and in some instances to chill the fruit overnight (as is commonplace in the New World, and becoming more so in Burgundy). Whether or not to use whole-bunch fermentation divided Pinot Noir producers (again). For some producers – such as Duband, Domaine de la Romanée-Conti and Dujac – whole-bunch is part of their style, and will use a high proportion every year. For others, there is debate. Cyril Audoin de-stemmed everything, feeling that the ripening season was too short in 2020 to allow for full lignification (ripening of the stems). Erwan Faiveley agreed, noting that the way maturity was blocked in the height of summer prevented the stems lignifying. On the other side of the argument, vignerons such as Benoît Stehly at Georges Lignier saw lignification in the stems as early as July and had no concern using them in the blend to add complexity. Even domaines known for not using stems – such as Fourrier – used up to 20% in their blends in 2020. For Fourrier, the aim was to absorb colour and tannin, and add a sense of freshness. The lower alcohol levels made the vinifications generally easy to manage, however the high level of tannin in the Pinot Noir required special care – with many, as for 2019, looking to extract more gently. Frédéric Weber at Bouchard reduced the maceration time to compensate, while Charles van Canneyt opted for more pump-overs than punch-downs. The natural concentration in the berries saw Domaine Georges Noëllat’s Maxime Cheurlin do everything he could to “make the wines thinner”. This meant a 10-12 day cold soak, less extraction and cooler fermentation temperatures (with a maximum 29˚C) – fortunately it worked and the wines remain remarkably ethereal. Vintage comparisons Many vignerons struggled to find a direct comparison for 2020. While the growing season is closest in character to 2003, there is almost universal agreement that the wines (both Chardonnay and Pinot Noir) taste nothing like the ’03s. The whites’ tartaric acid and pH levels make a nice comparison with 2014 but they have so much more richness too, which brings added impact. Frédéric Weber notes how despite the warmness of the year, there is tremendous terroir transparency from one vineyard to the next – a real signal for him of a great vintage. In this respect it resembles 2016, but with added concentration. “The Pinots from 2017 and 2019 are soft, aromatic, round and warm in the mouth,” he says, “but the 2020s and 2016s have tension, brightness and are full of energy.” Several noted the similarity in fruit clarity to 2015, but with added freshness. While some compare it to 1947, Nicolas Potel – a man with an encyclopedic knowledge of Burgundy vintages – finds it closer to 1966, with a little 2019. “Big, but with great balance,” he explains. While there’s no obvious precedent, producers agree that the wines have great ageing potential thanks to the rich tannins and high acidity levels. Yields and pricing While Chardonnay didn’t fare too badly in 2020 (making white winemakers in the Côte de Beaune particularly happy), Pinot Noir did suffer in the drought. Yields are therefore reduced by up to 40%, depending on the domaine. Of course, this seems like nothing to producers after the just-picked 2021 – where producers have been able to salvage as little as 20% of a normal crop. This does mean that most wines will be increasing in price this year, with around 10-30% estimated. With so little wine made in 2021, however, and the exceptional quality of 2020, this is a vintage that is hard to miss. The vintage in summary A vintage of outstanding quality Whites very slightly edge the reds, with more consistency Despite being a warm year, wines show vibrant acidity and good terroir expression Yields reduced by up to 40%, with Pinot Noir more impacted than Chardonnay Prices will be up (around 10-30%) due to the year’s low yields, and the almost catastrophic levels seen in 2021 Explore more Editorial 

Our team spent a week tasting their way around Burgundy, getting a handle on the 2020 vintage. Here we dig into a unique year and the stunning wines it produced

Our team tasted their way around Burgundy, getting a handle on the 2020 wine vintage. We dig into a unique year and the stunning wines it produced

Burgundy vintage 2020 review

Burgundy 2020: an exceptional year

Potel-Aviron

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

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

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

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

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

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