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  

After speaking with some of the foremost fine tea experts in the western world, a few things are immediately apparent. Fine tea is complex. There are undoubtedly parallels with the world of fine wine. And, almost without exception, the best examples are incredibly hard to source this side of Asia. It is also an incredibly tricky subject to learn more about if you, like me, don’t speak Chinese or Japanese. A quick stroke of the key will yield information on fine tea and where to find it. But your best bet is either boarding a plane to Asia (which is currently not without its difficulties) or finding somebody who has spent years immersing themselves in the fine tea world – they’ll likely speak the local dialect. “People are very literate when it comes to fine wine and whisky,” Jameel Lalani is quick to tell me, “not so literate when it comes to tea, although it is completely applicable.” When he set up his specialist single-batch tea business, Lalani & Co, 11 years ago, Lalani was very deliberate in borrowing the language of fine wine. “Tea is much like wine,” he explains, “it’s a drink of the terroir. Everything you do from when you choose the land and the seeds and the people you are going to work with is going to affect the flavour.” The choice of varietal, distance above sea level and picking season are also of the utmost importance. Lalani says tea is his drink, and has been since the age of four. He hasn’t looked back since tasting green tea for the first time while holidaying in North Africa as a child. One of the magical things about fine tea, I’m learning, is the paths people have taken into it. Burgundy expert and Master of Wine Jasper Morris, for example, was introduced to the world of fine tea in New Zealand, of all places, by a blind Taiwanese winemaker. From that day onwards, Morris attended Chinese tea ceremonies and swotted up on all things fine tea whenever the opportunity arose on wine trips to China and Japan. “I absolutely love it and drink it all day – from first getting up through to after dinner,” he enthuses. Fine tea is now a real passion of his, frequently hosting tasting and writing on the subject. Timothy d’Offay’s induction began while studying Japanese in Kyoto in the early 1990s. He’s been a disciple ever since – writing numerous fine tea books (in English and Japanese) and establishing one of the most highly regarded fine tea shops, Postcard Teas, in the process. Many years later, d’Offay says he is still learning, and it’s one of the things he loves most about the fine tea world. “It’s so disconnected,” d’Offay says. “Whereas specialty coffee is a world industry now and you can drink a similar product with a similar style in Sydney, Seoul, London or San Francisco, tea isn’t like that. Tea is very, very regional and very local. The predominant sales of the fine teas are local, in China in particular. “And the Chinese tea world is so different from even other countries like Japan that get their tea culture originally from China. It’s so vast.” Morris says things we have learned from wine – soil, subsoil, drainage etc – matter a great deal in fine tea. “In the Wuyi Mountains, for example, each individual mountain has its own character,” he explains, “so the underlying rock is crucial. Then also, instead of the grape variety, the cultivar of tea can make a difference as well. How and when you pick it – again a parallel – and how and when you process it.” D’Offay says wine and tea are both at the pinnacles – wine in the west, tea in the east – and despite the groundswell of appreciation for fine tea, many still struggle to shake misconceptions and get their heads around the complexities. “You’re always learning,” he says. “Probably the biggest barrier people have is a concept of what tea is,” Morris adds. “If somebody says black tea to you, they probably mean they don’t want milk in it, but there is a style of tea which we loosely call black. In fact, in China it’s more likely to be called red tea than black tea – that sort of dark tea – but there are white teas, yellow teas (which are pretty rare), red teas, green teas, and a lot depends on the season things are picked. “So, if, for example, we switch from China to India to Darjeeling. Darjeeling is in fact a type of tea which is much much more similar to Chinese tea than it is to the rest of Indian tea. If you get a first flush Darjeeling, it’s almost almost not quite a green tea, and that’s a tea that I adore and buy in big quantities.” Another hangover from old is the misconception surrounding price and what one should pay for quality. “One of the challenges in the tea world is that the mass market has demanded tea at a very low price,” Lalani says. “Some of these terroirs are phenomenal but the market says we want our tea cheap and quick. And that’s kind of like if you went to Bordeaux and you said I’d like your wine for €3.60 a bottle. What are you going to do? It doesn’t give you enough room. So what happens is the quality just goes down because you have to produce in quantity.” When purchasing fine tea, there are good resources online but d’Offay cautions: “Buyer beware.” Some enthusiasts, he explains, have a vested interest and commercial gains tied to your purchase. “The more you pay doesn’t mean that you’ll like the tea more. It’s very important to find out what you like first, before spending a lot of money online.” He says there is no right thing, just like with wine. “It’s a wide field and often your taste will not coincide with somebody else’s, so it’s really important to taste a lot of tea and find out what you like.” On this, Morris says it’s the same as when buying wine. “You just need to be buying it from somebody you trust – both for their taste and their integrity. Then let them guide you down the learning curve. And as with wine, there are some brilliant teas which may just not suit your palate.” If you are interested in getting into tea, d’Offay advises spending more money on tea and less money on the tea-making equipment. “You really need very basic tea equipment,” he explains. For Chinese teas, d’Offay says a Gaiwan – lidded cup – or a simple brewer is a good starting point. Porcelain, he says, is quite robust and glass is ok. You don’t, for example, need Yixing (the exquisite teapot pronounced yee-shing) to start with. He says he did a tasting with some “pretty good teas” with two mugs and a strainer recently. But is quick to add: “I’m not recommending that everyone brews in one mug and strains in another mug, but it is better than wasting a lot of money on really fancy stuff.” It’s always a good idea to ask questions and look for certain things when purchasing fine tea, Lalani says. “Most of the tea that gets produced gets blended – it will be picked, it will be sold to a brand, they will blend it up and it will sit on a shelf somewhere with their brand on it and that’s it. You may know where it’s from, for example, you might know what you’re buying is a Darjeeling, you may know the season – they might tell you it’s a first flush or a second flush. But it could be a blend of any number of different batches. It could be a blend of any number of different producers. It could be a blend of any number of different vintages. So the less information they give you, the less you know what’s in it.” Taking the time to make an educated purchase is a vital step, so too is the time spent learning how to prepare tea correctly. For this, Lalani has the shorthand: leaf, dose, temperature, time, decant. “Like with any of your passions, it’s going to take a bit longer,” he explains. “If you want to get a suit made, you can’t walk out with it the same day – you’ve got to wait six to eight weeks but it’s worth it. If you want to get into fine wine, you’re going to need some better glassware, you’re going to need temperature-controlled storage and you’re going to need to invest your time in a bit of knowledge.” He continues: “When you get into chocolate, you can’t buy it for 50 pence a bar, you’ve got to pay £5 to £10 a bar for a craft-made chocolate – another one of my passions – and it’s worth it.  "So, with tea, you can’t brew the bag – excuse my language – in hot water for 10 seconds, but it only takes three to five minutes to do it well – less time than it takes to make a cocktail. But it’s worth it and the rewards are enormous.” We second that. Everything you need to know about purchasing and preparing fine tea Location, location, location: When it comes to buying tea, you need to know where it was grown – particular regions have particular styles. It’s also important to know the producer and the name of the garden. Seasons matter: Tea is grown pretty much all year round. A leaf picked in the premium spring season is going to be better than a leaf picked in the rainy season. As a quick rule of thumb, look for things like first flush, second flush or spring season. It’s usually the early part of the year when you get the better quality. This is true of Japan, Taiwan and India. Vintage picks: Look for the vintage. This will give you some indication if you should be drinking it young and fresh or aged. Some teas, like the first flush season Darjeeling, are best when young and fresh –drink them as quickly as you can. Some teas, like certain white teas or oolongs from Taiwan, are great if aged. If you buy them young, you’d expect to buy them at a young price, but then if they’ve been intentionally aged, then their value – and price – will increase. So you might buy something from 2015 or 2000 or 1998, for example, where you’ll be paying a premium, but it has been aged and likely improved in flavour. Brewing to perfection: A useful shorthand for how to prepare your tea is leaf, dose, temperature, time, decant. It’s important you follow the instructions regarding the volume of leaves and temperature of water the particular tea you have purchased requires (on many modern kettles you can set the temperature, making this element very simple). There should be ample information about this on the packaging. Lalani wholeheartedly recommends purchasing precision scales to ensure you have the precise quantity of leaves every time. Balance scales cost circa £10. Essential kit: While d’Offay says a temperature-controlled kettle isn’t a must to start with, Lalani suggests it’s a worthwhile purchase at approximately £40. Both say you should be mindful with lower-temperature teas and ensure it’s the desired strength and taste. Lalani also thinks a single-pour tea pot is a wise investment. The Alethea, sold at Lalani & Co, is a beautiful and practical single-serving vessel.  Read more Editorial

The fine tea world is a treasure trove of discovery. As beguiling and complex as any wine or spirit, this enchanting liquid steeped in history can be incredibly confusing to master. Holly Motion talks to a handful of fine tea aficionados about why it's well worth investing the time.

Exploring the world of fine tea: beguiling and complex as any wine or spirit, and why it's well worth investing the time

Exploring the world of fine tea

The time for tea: next-level brews

For the aperitif For Domaine Long-Depaquit’s Matthieu Mangenot it is the energy and power of Champagne Brut Nature Les Marnes Blanches from Jeaunaux-Robin, that makes it his choice at Christmas. “I can't say for sure if it is the 100% Chardonnay selection or the very elegant vinification in Burgundy barrel that is this Champagne’s (hidden) tribute to our region but there is absolutely no ‘make up‘ with this Champagne. With no dosage it is a true expression of Chardonnay and terroir. To me, it is the best sparkling to get you ready for Christmas dinner!”  Klaus-Peter Keller (Weingut Keller) and his family love Champagne Bérèche & Fils or Krug, “but we will definitely enjoy some sparkling wines from Germany too!” he adds. Gianlorenzo di Neri from Montalcino’s Casanova di Neri is also choosing something local, with a 2002 Trentodoc – Giulio Ferrari Riserva del Fondatore, as well as a family favourite, Champagne Egly-Ouriet’s Blanc de Noirs. Saskia de Rothschild (Ch. Lafite-Rothschild) breaks the mould and prefers to drink ice-cold Sauternes as an aperitif rather than sparkling wine. She is still toying on whether to go young or old, deciding between a 2017, an 2007 or 1989 from Ch. Rieussec. The whites White Burgundy seems the overwhelmingly popular choice for the Christmas table. Francisco Baettig (Viña Errázuriz, Viñedo Chadwick and Baettig wines) opting for a bottle of Pulingy-Montrachet Les Combettes from Etienne Sauzet. “I love the elegance and balance of this appellation, and the purity of the wines from this producer.” Neri is saving his last bottle of 2005 Bourgogne Blanc by Coche-Dury alongside a 1991 Terlano Rarita, a Pinot Bianco blend released 25 years after it was made, proving the incredible ageing potential of top whites from Alto Adige. Mangenot has also opted for a rarity for the special day – a magnum of 2012 Nuits-Saint-Georges Blanc from Château-Gris (Albert Bichot). Chardonnay accounts for just 2% of the Nuits-Saint-Georges appellation. “The wine has a lot of richness and a beautiful tension due to the altitude of the vineyards,” says Mangenot: he is pairing it with cod fillet and citrus cream. Keller is bucking the trend and unsurprisingly opting for dry Rieslings, specifically from the 1990s, along with an eagerly awaited bottle of 1959 Mosel Piesporter Schubertslay. In 2008, Keller (although based in Rheinhessen) took over 0.7 hectares of this incredibly steep slope in the Mosel and he is using his Christmas dinner to do some research on this Mosel site with some serious bottle age. The reds Keller is not holding back on the reds: he’s got a 1966 Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and a 1991 Clos de la Roche Grand Cru from Hubert Lignier lined up. Gianlorenzo di Neri is also opting for a Clos de la Roche, although his is a 2006 from Armand Rousseau. At the Neri household they love to compare Grand Cru Burgundy with their Brunellos, “It should be amazing to taste our 2006 Tenuta Nuova alongside.” Beyond Brunello and Burgundy, they will also be enjoying some top Nebbiolo, but it’s not an easy choice. “For Barolo we love so many producers, Elio Grasso’s Runcot – 2008 should be delicious now – or possibly Giacosa’s 2007 Barbaresco Asili Riserva.” For Mangenot, “The middle of winter is a good period to open a bottle of sunshine like Cornas Vin Noir 2012 from Domaine du Tunnel (my wife loves it!) – concentration, density, beautiful complexity, silky tannins… And a bunch of aromas that turns your dinner into a summer journey in a convertible car with your nose in the wind!” Beattig is also opting for Northern Rhône Syrah from his favourite producer Pierre Gonon, a Saint-Joseph. “I love the complexity of aromas, the spiciness. The structure of the wine, but at the same time the polished tannins. The mix of freshness, complexity and depth... love it.” At the Rothschild household it will of course be Lafite: “1988 or/and 1996: two absolute favourites of mine these days,” Saskia explains. “The 1988 is pure Lafite, extremely complex and evolving and the ’96, thanks to its perfect balance, is just so easy to drink that you’ll finish the bottle without even noticing it.” Jean-Guillaume Prats (CEO of Domaines Barons de Rothschild Lafite) is staying pretty loyal too, opting for Pomerol’s Ch. l’Evangile 2010. To finish Finally the sweets and fortifieds: there is never a better time to open aged Ports to go with the cheese and desserts of Christmas. For Lafite’s Jean-Guillaume Prats it will be Dow’s 1977 – in his words, “perfection”. Mangenot is also going for Vintage Port: Graham’s Quinta dos Malvedos 2001, “to go with a homemade chocolate mousse, and the rest of the bottle definitely to enjoy slowly by the fire with the family… Fruits, flowers, creamy character, it is a treat for the nose and the palate I wouldn't miss it at any price.” Keller decides on the sweet wines more spontaneously: “One of our favorite combinations is matching 40 and 50-year-old Ausleses with game dishes. It can taste so great. The anticipation is already great.” If fortifieds are not your thing, then take Jean-Sébastien Philippe of Lafite’s recommendation: he’ll be having a glass (or two) of Cognac de Lafite Très Vieille Réserve. He believes it is one of the most astonishing selections of old eaux-de-vies in Cognac. Browse our full range

There’s no better time than Christmas to open a treasured bottle or two. Ahead of the big day, we asked a handful of our favourite winemakers – from Saskia de Rothschild to Klaus-Peter Keller – to tell us what they’ll be uncorking

We find out the special bottles some of our favourite winemakers and distillers are uncorking this Christmas

What winemakers are drinking this Christmas

Bordeaux 2023  Unsurprisingly, our coverage of the latest Bordeaux vintage was top of the most-read list this year. From our first look, our full report and breakdown of the year by commune to our round-up of what the critics were saying about the vintage, there’s no doubt that Bordeaux 2023 caught your attention.  Read all our coverage of the vintage here  Burgundy  The allure of the Côte d’Or and its expressions of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir don’t look set to fade. With the release of the latest vintage from Burgundy always straddling New Year, our most-read features included coverage of both 2022 (with our summary of what the critics thought of the year) as well as our first look at the 2023 vintage, which we’re currently immersed in, as well as Jasper Morris MW’s feature for FONDATA on eight domaines to watch and our essential guide to the region.  Read all Burgundy features  Advocating for change: William Kelley  In under a decade, William Kelley has gone from an unknown academic to one of the wine world’s most familiar faces and influential voices. Now in situ as the Wine Advocate’s Editor-in-Chief, we sat down with the wine critic and winemaker to talk about his accidental career and his plans for the publication.  Read more  Rino Fontana: a collector like no other  Named by Antonio Galloni as his Wine Personality of the Year in 2023, Rino Fontana is a collector like no other. He has been squirrelling away Piedmont’s treasures since he started visiting the region’s wineries in the 1980s. But he has eyes only for one grape: Nebbiolo. We sat down to talk about his journey into wine, extraordinary cellar and obsession with this regal variety.   Read more  Telmo Rodríguez: the eternal battle  Over the last three decades, Telmo Rodríguez has relentlessly fought for Spain’s vinous heritage, forging a new face for the nation’s wines. We caught up with the indefatigable winemaker to talk about his eternal battle to right previous wrongs and Matallana, his most ambitious project to date.  Read more  See what was popular last year or read more Editorial 

From in-depth vintage reports to interviews with the industry’s leading names, we’ve published a whole host of features over the course of 2024. Of it all, however, these were the stories that proved most popular

The most popular wine and spirits features we published in 2024 – as chosen by you, from detailed vintage reports to deep-dive interviews 

The biggest wine and spirits stories of 2024 

The biggest stories of 2024 

Truffles: small, gnarly things. Equally ugly and alluring. Pungently intoxicating. Deliciously rare – and undeniably expensive. Alexandre Dumas described truffle as “the holy of holies”. Rossini called it “the Mozart of mushrooms”. Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin said just the name “awakens erotic and gastronomic ideas”. There’s something magical about the way these funghi lie just out of sight. The elusive treasures lurk beneath an otherwise unassuming forest floor, found only with the help of a specially trained hound. Once unearthed, however, they become the centrepiece to the world’s most expensive dishes, prized by Michelin-starred chefs and gourmands alike. They aren’t just another ingredient, however, there’s theatre to their presentation: the stage set in the kitchen, then served with a flourish tableside. For Rowan Jacobsen, author of the recently published Truffle Hound, one sniff was enough to keep him on the trail for three years. The Vermont-based writer was in Barolo in 2018 and on his way to the table, when he passed a giant white truffle under a glass cloche. Instinctively he lifted the dome: “I didn’t even make it to the table. Such a crazy smell. I was destroyed at the luncheon – I kept thinking about the truffle,” he tells me. That one flare of the nostrils had him hooked, and he’s been following truffle hunters around Europe ever since. His book follows his adventures – discovering “dreamers, schemers, and some extraordinary dogs” along the way. Piedmont is considered the home of the truffle – with the annual fair in Alba (running from October to December) the epicentre of the trade. White truffles (tuber magnatum), as found in Alba, are the crème de la crème of the truffle world – distinctly seasonal, flourishing in the autumn and winter. This brief window of opportunity is key to their appeal. As Donald Edwards, Head Sommelier at La Trompette, says, “What else can you have where the stopwatch of deliciousness is literally ticking by the table?” Of course, not all truffles are created equal. Black truffles are a third or a quarter of the price of white truffles and offer a very different aroma. Jacobsen describes “more pungent, more overwhelming” and “invigorating” scent of white truffle as “garlic, salami, almost gasoline” versus the “comforting, soothing, round” notes of “cured olives, cocoa and hazelnut” that he associates with black truffles. And while there is only one white truffle, there are two types of black truffle: the black winter truffle (or Périgord, tuber melanosporum, now mostly grown in Spain) and the black summer truffle (tuber aestivum, sometimes known as the Burgundy truffle but found all over northern Europe, including southern England). The latter, more widespread breed is not nearly as intense as its winter sibling, meaning more is needed for the same impact. One reason that white truffles carry such a premium is also that they have – so far – proven impervious to cultivation (although scientists in France have recently claimed to have cracked this). The truffle hunters, or trifulau, in Piedmont are therefore unsurprisingly secretive about where they find their treasure. Often speaking only a local dialect, these foragers roam the woods – often under the cover of darkness in search of “white gold”. Their dog will sniff their way to the right spot, pawing the ground and patiently waiting for their master to dig up their bounty. “It’s a billion-dollar industry totally dependent on dogs’ noses,” Jacobsen says, laughing at the absurdity. While the hunters might avoid the limelight, it’s not the case when it comes to their dogs, Jacobsen tells me. The canine connection is taken to the next level when you also depend on a four-legged friend for your livelihood. While pigs were the original snouts charged with sniffing out truffles, hunters switched to dogs in the 17th and 18th centuries. Lagotto Romagnolo is the “traditional” truffle-hunting breed (and comes with an associated premium, given their potential return), but today almost any dog is used. They simply need to be trained and have the right nose for the job. “Good ones are amazing,” Jacobsen tells me. “They can find a truffle 50 yards away in the forest and they just know it’s there.” Trifulau Luigi Rosso has been – along with his dog Danko (aged seven) – sniffing out the good stuff for 30 years. While it might look easy, he says that it’s incredibly difficult and can be dangerous for both hunters and their dogs, traipsing through forests in the dark. It is, however, all worth it for him. “The tranquillity that is in the air while you go for the truffles. The moon, the silence and only the sound of your footsteps on the damp leaves, then the joy of your dog when it finds one…” he tells me. The unique scent of truffle is what drives connoisseurs to seek them out – bidding on the finest examples for extortionate sums. “I feel like they've evolved to hit some deep pleasure receptors in our brains. When they're good you just want to luxuriate in them,” Edwards says. William Lowe MW – the man behind Cambridge Distillery – set about capturing the elusive flavours of truffle in his quest to create a digestif-style gin. The idea was born when looking at the digestif trolley in a Michelin-starred restaurant – and a sommelier who was scornful at the idea of a gin worthy of joining its ranks of fine Cognac and single malt whisky. “If you look at those rare and mature examples, you’ll see that the oxidative maturation process creates these beautiful earthy aromatic profiles sometimes referred to as ‘forest floor’. We wanted to achieve this profile through distillation rather than maturation, and truffles gave us the perfect route to do so,” Lowe says. “It took me a very, very long time. Because truffles are hard to deal with. They are packed full of volatiles, which is to say that truffles smell more than they taste,” the Master Distiller explains. “If you think it through – every time you open a door to a restaurant that is serving truffles, bang you get it straight away. But if you look at the food they serve truffles on and it’s always almost neutral dishes: creamy pasta, mushroom risotto. It’s never on super flavoursome dishes because if it is, you can’t taste the truffle anymore.” The challenge, however, was capturing something that doesn’t want to be caught, and finding the right level of truffle. “With truffle, chefs will normally do one of two things: either they’ll know you know it’s expensive so they’ll use loads of it so you can’t taste anything else for the rest of the meal – or they’ll do the opposite. They know that you know it’s expensive so they use so little that it’s the Emperor’s new clothes – you sort of have to search for it. It takes a genuinely skilled chef to use truffle well. And using it well is when you get all of that amazing aroma but you can still taste the other things.” This was what Lowe was aiming for – but it wasn’t easy. He spent months refining the distillation technique for truffle, but the flavour was only “ok”. He went back to the drawing board and decided that the problem was the truffle he was using – black wouldn’t cut it. “We went straight to Piemonte – white truffles from Alba. Gram for gram, worth more than gold […] and it came out and tasted a lot better than gold does so that’s an easy trade,” says Lowe. For trifulau Rosso, you need at least 10 grams on a dish (whereas, he says dismissively, restaurants will often only use a measly five) – with homemade tagliarini top of his list, although he also suggests trying it on panna cotta. He considers Pelaverga – a rare red variety that’s native to Piedmont – the classic pairing, but otherwise goes for one of the region’s other reds, Barbera, Barbaresco or Barolo. These are undoubtedly the classic pairings, following the simple rule of what grows together goes together. However, Jacobsen or Edwards don’t agree. “It couldn’t be more wrong. It really requires a white. The tannins clash with the aromatics,” Jacobsen says. The truffle specialist opts for Champagne, white Burgundy or cool-climate Californian Chardonnay – even Beaujolais. As for Edwards, he likes something that plays on the delicacy’s textural quality: “They work so well with buttery, umami-laden cheese sauces that I can't not want really classy Chardonnay. I want bâtonnage, I want really expensive but underplayed oak and I want ripeness with a gimlet-eyed stare of terroir behind. Basically, Burgundy, Mornington or the best of the Santa Rita Hills (I'll accept that other places also make perfect wines for this), plus if I can have a few years in bottle to build that sous bois flavour connection then all the better.” At the time of writing, we’re in the midst of the 2021 truffle season – one that has brought eye-watering prices. The hot, dry summer in Piedmont (unlike the wet conditions experienced in northern Europe) has led to a tiny crop – some say the smallest in history, driving prices up. Bloomberg has declared it “The Great White Truffle Crisis”. The white truffle needs such specific conditions that climate change, and – as Rosso tells me – the warmer autumns in Piedmont, pose a serious threat. While we consider Alba the spiritual home of white truffles, today most come from elsewhere. Both Central Italy and Le Marche, but also Romania, Serbia, Croatia and Hungary are all now hotspots for truffle hunting. Many of these regions are benefiting from the shift in climate, now having the ideal conditions to nurture the rare tuber magnatum. As for black truffles, the summer variety can now be found as far north as Sweden, but drought conditions mean that irrigation is becoming essential for existing orchards. Beyond climate, there are other challenges. In Piedmont, there are fewer forests than there once were, with more profitable vineyards replacing woodland (another reason that hunters are looking elsewhere). Also, the local trifulau are – in general – an ageing group. One truffle hunter, Carlo Marenda, has established a non-profit, Save the Truffle, to try and protect the region’s truffle hunting heritage – both by passing on the tradition to younger people and protecting the forests, nurturing the right environment for truffle growth. “It used to be that these forests were very actively used by farmers, peasants – fallen wood for firewood, leaves for animal bedding etc. So forests didn’t have a lot of undergrowth,” Jacobsen explains. “But then the world changed.” With the forest floor not being cleared, decaying matter acidified the soil – something that truffles hate. Truffles thrive in high pH soils, which is why they’re found on beds of limestone. To ensure the forests provide a welcoming home for the tubers, it’s essential they’re managed correctly. While there are certainly challenges to preserving the truffle’s place in Piedmont, the good news for gastronomes is that these tubers aren’t disappearing – just moving. After three years on the trail, Jacobsen is as enchanted by truffles as when he began. But he’s less keen on the hierarchy that comes with them. There are, he says, plenty more species of truffle beyond those currently on the market – but hunters can’t sell them, so keep them for themselves. He hopes the truffle culture will shift to grassroots foraging, rather than “waiters in tuxedos grating your precious morsel over your pasta”. However it reaches your table, it’s clear that the truffle holds a special allure – and the transience of its elusive scent, fading with the seasons, is what keeps us on the hunt. Truffle Hound is out now. Explore more Editorial 

Love them or loathe them, truffles are undoubtedly some of the most majestic ingredients on the planet. But, with a changing climate and an ageing cohort of specialist truffle hunters, the future of this rare delicacy is uncertain. Sophie Thorpe explores

Truffles are undoubtedly some of the most majestic ingredients on the planet. But the future of this rare delicacy is uncertain. Sophie Thorpe explores

Chasing truffles

Dalmore, Mortlach and Macallan fetch tens of thousands of pounds at auction today – but they likely wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for an independent bottler. In times of great economic hardship, Gordon & MacPhail provided cash-strapped distilleries with much-needed capital when they secured new-make spirit to mature and bottle as a single malt, rather than a blend. “The world was so focused on blends in the 1970s that to get the financial return on the malts was really challenging,” Gordon & MacPhail’s Director of Prestige Stephen Rankin says. To put that into perspective, a bottle of 35-year-old Macallan from 1937 that would fetch approximately £32,000 in today’s market would sell for a mere £4.54 then. A top-end blend might sell for £2. Rankin says if it wasn’t for his forebears’ patience and foresight, 50-, 60-, and 70-year-old bottlings wouldn’t be available today. “It’s not just matching spirit with oak,” he explains. “It’s actually matching the spirit with the oak and then time and the patience.”   The Gordon & MacPhail name has endured where countless others have not. Today, the fourth generation can pull out samples dating back nine decades from more than 100 distilleries. “It’s that lineage that stands us apart,” Rankin says. “As a company we have had this incredible respect for whisky and depth of relationships forged from 1895.”   “Business was done on the strength of a handshake when my father started the company in the 1940s,” Fred Hamilton Laing – Douglas Laing & Co Chairman and second-generation family member – says. “And so many of our filling programmes still continue today because there was a trust given and a confidence that there would be no abuse of the stock.” If it wasn’t for the “fairly substantial” stocks Laing’s father had built up since the 1950s then the Scottish independent blenders and bottlers might not have survived the 1990s financial crash in Asia Pacific. “All of a sudden our blended business was made very difficult to continue. We were constantly adding to our stocks of grain and malt whisky for these blends, so it was a survival instinct that took us into the single cask business in the year 2000.” This business proved to be “very good” and steadied the ship. Laing says it was with great delight the company was able to come back into the blending business with Big Peat in 2009, much to the dismay of the “crusty old men in the industry”. This launch, looking at younger, slightly more rebellious whisky consumers heralded a new era for the company and brought them full circle. It was the filling programme’s breadth of stock and the relationships with the distilleries that allowed Douglas Laing to carry out the same process for Big Peat and Scallywag into the Scottish Highlands for Timorous Beastie, into the Lowlands with the Epicurean, into the Campbeltown area with the Gauldrons, onto the Island distilleries with Rock Island and introduce the Remarkable Regional Malts. “It’s a busy game,” Laing adds.  Fledgling in comparison, That Boutique-y Whisky Company stormed onto the independent bottling scene in 2012 with their 50cl illustrated bottles. “We are all about throwing fun back into whisky,” Head of Whisky Sam Simmons says. “We take the whisky very seriously, but we don’t take ourselves seriously.” The goal here is simple: curate delicious whiskies you would never see from an official bottling. This disruptive attitude has led to a cult-like following which Simmons readily acknowledges “doesn’t speak to everybody”. The Boutique-y whiskies might originate from around the world, but they are all bottled in the Scottish tradition – bought direct from the distiller or from brokers and other independent bottlers. The retail price is always calculated from the cost of the liquid rather than market value or cost. “The kind of whiskies we want to bottle may not be delicious to everybody, but they are the kind of whiskies that make you say: you got to try this,” Simmons adds. When it comes to bottling exquisite liquids, few ventures are as compelling as “curators of the most remarkable spirits”, The Last Drop Distillers. “I really love the word remarkable,” Managing Director Rebecca Jago says with a smile. “Because it is not saying it is the oldest or the best even, but that it is intrinsically delicious. If I gave you a glass of something from The Last Drop, I would want you to find it as delightful as someone who has been nosing spirits for 50 years.” The company started by Rebecca’s father Tom and his long-term friend James Espey OBE in 2008 is somewhat unique in that it crosses category. The two drinks industry icons initially set out to bottle single malts, but that all changed when they tasted a certain 47-year-old blended Scotch. From that day onwards, the two men – who had previously developed the likes of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and Chivas 18 – broadened their brief to seek out exceptional old parcels of any amazing spirit. By the time the company was sold to Sazerac in 2016, The Last Drop had released seven remarkable liquids and both Espey and Jago’s daughters (Beanie Geraedts-Espey and Rebecca Jago) had joined the business. In addition to being a source of great pride for the two founders, the acquisition also brought new freedoms and opportunities for the team. The US drinks group backing enabled The Last Drop to source stock for immediate release, granted them a greater ability to lay down stock and create their own libraries of future stock, and gave them the opportunity to venture into liquid creation. “I think finding treasure is not just about uncovering it,” Jago says. “It would be disingenuous to suggest that we’re Indiana Jones in Scotland, going and hunting out that barrel that is hidden at the back of the cellar because it is not,” Jago says. As romantic as the image might be, every single barrel of Scotch whisky of any age, of any sort, is known about by HMRC.  “We can talk about some of the lovely discoveries that we have genuinely been party to,” Jago adds. “Going back to the very first release of three unassuming barrels of an old blend. The treasure in that was the liquid inside. It had perhaps been discounted or forgotten about.” Or the “genuine discovery” of a Cognac barrel that had been lying untouched in an outhouse for over 70 years that was happened upon by a family member doing renovation work at the distillery. “I think that is the sort of ultimate Indiana Jones story,” Jago adds, “not by us, but we were fortunate enough to be there and I suppose our story of making the liquid the hero is sufficiently compelling that they are prepared to let us put it in a bottle.” All four bottlers, whether in their infancy or maturity, are bound by a sense of honour and wanting to do right by the liquid. And everyone benefits.   Browse all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial 

From traditional single malt Scotch to the weird-and-wonderful and everything in between, there’s every chance an independent bottler had a hand in bringing this liquid to your lips. Holly Motion spoke to four bottlers about the important role they play in the spirits world

Exploring the history of independent bottling with Gordon & MacPhail, Last Drop Distillers, That Boutique-y Whisky Company and Douglas Laing & Co,

Exploring the world of independent bottling 

Message in a bottle

I’m sitting opposite Rino Fontana, an Italian wine collector that Antonio Galloni named his Wine Personality of the Year in 2023. Fontana looks unassuming – like any other septuagenarian that you might find, cigarette in hand, knocking back an espresso in a sunny piazza. Sunglasses hang on a string around his neck, and occasionally he rifles through scraps of paper that seem to operate as a calendar and/or journal. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it was perhaps someone a little more, well, suave. Fontana has been collecting wine since the 1980s and is renowned for his cellar, a treasure trove of remarkable vintages from Piedmont’s top producers. Indeed, Galloni has dubbed him “Il Professore” for his extensive knowledge of Italian wine – despite never having worked in the industry. As Fontana scrolls through pictures on his phone, recalling recent dinners, he rolls off names and vintages that would leave any wine-lover speechless. He grew up in the Oltrepò Pavese, where his father was a stonemason, but would buy grapes and make a little wine for the family. Fontana was sent to school in Valenza, a town known for its gold industry – and he started working in a gold factory in his late teens. Aged 24, he and his best friend opened their own jewellery workshop. It was the owner of a local restaurant in nearby Mortara who introduced Fontana to the real pleasures of wine, and a bottle of Conterno’s Monfortino that made him fall head over heels for Nebbiolo – the 1958 vintage, in fact. Since that first taste, he’s opened over 150 bottles (yes, really) of the 1958 Monfortino. It was that wine that prompted Fontana to start visiting producers – an adventure in self-education. At the time, people weren’t buying wine, and Italy’s winemakers were far from fashionable. He became friends with the likes of Giuseppe Rinaldi, Bruno Giacosa and Gianfranco Soldera, rapidly securing significant allocations of their wines when few others were showing interest. Producers, in turn, suggested he had a gift – unique in his ability to understand wines in barrel and foretell their future. Today, he covers around 80,000km a year visiting producers – but the vast majority of that mileage is in Piedmont, for Fontana drinks – and collects – little other than Nebbiolo. This one grape represents around 95% of his consumption, he says, with Barolo and/or Barbaresco on the menu every day. He always has the latest releases on hand in the fridge – even some basic Langhe Nebbiolo, but at least twice a week he’ll uncork something special from the 1960s or ’80s with wine-loving friends or producers. While Nebbiolo is one of many grapes to be declared “the king of wines”, for Fontana it really does reign supreme. When I ask why, marvelling at how he could drink so much of just one variety, he shrugs: “Nebbiolo is Nebbiolo.” When I push him, he says he loves its ageability, structure and elegance – something he feels you can’t find in Pinot Noir. He recalls a recent dinner with Galloni at Il Centro in Priocca, sharing a bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti’s 2004 La Tâche alongside a 1947 Borgogno Barolo and 1989 Vigna Rionda from Giacosa. Both the Barolos, he says, grew over the dinner – while the La Tâche faded slowly. For him, Burgundy (even the world’s most sought-after bottles) is no match for Nebbiolo. That’s a controversial opinion – but Fontana is not a man short of views. He dismisses the wines of Cappellano and Accomasso, while he has firm beliefs on how Nebbiolo should be made, favouring traditional winemaking with old oak – not wanting to feel the wood in the wine. He argues that too many young producers are going to Burgundy and trying to echo that style in their wines, losing their Piedmontese identity. The resulting wines are, he feels, too technical, too clean. “Great wine can’t be perfect,” he says – suggesting that those imperfections are partly what makes wine feel alive. While the most established and famous producers dominate his collection, he also likes the wines from newer names such as Trediberri, Crissante and Cascina Baricchi. Beyond Nebbiolo, he’ll dabble in certain labels of Sangiovese – Soldera, for example will pass muster, as well as SanCarlo (a producer he feels rivals the former). Montevertine’s Le Pergole Torte would previously have been a prime choice, but now he’d choose Le Boncie’s Le Trame instead. He likes Valentini and Emidio Pepe, and used to buy Gravner but feels the style changed in 2004 so stopped. He sold his jewellery business in 2000 – dedicating his time entirely to wine – visiting producers, building his collection and selling to select parties (of which FINE+RARE is lucky enough to be one). Fontana has around 9,000 bottles in his collection today. He shows us a video of his cellar – intriguingly with many of the wines stored upright. Anything post 1990 is kept on its side, but older wines stand proud in his cellar – something which he argues is better once they reach a certain age, with the cork and humidity of the cellar more important in their preservation. It’s a remarkable collection, with incredible verticals of many wines. His access seems unparalleled – receiving larger allocations than many importers, given his historical ties. He is the only individual, for example, to receive an allocation of Rinaldi’s Brunate Cru – a wine that is otherwise kept exclusively for the family. Some of his most prized bottles are Giacosa’s 1964 Santo Stefano and magnums of 1970 Monfortino (“amazing” – he says), while he has a soft spot for the youthful 2015 Soldera. Now aged 73, Fontana seems just as enchanted by wine as when he first tasted that 1958 Monfortino. I ask him if there’s a wine he is still desperate to taste, a unicorn that he’s still hunting: the answer is no. He’s been able to try every vintage from the producers he loves. It’s a rare answer for a wine lover – but “Il Professore” isn’t your average wine collector. – Photography of Rino Fontana at Il Centro by Dan Deibel Explore a selection of top verticals from Fontana’s cellar, all Italian listings or read more Editorial

Friends with Vinous founder and critic Antonio Galloni, and with a cellar that will turn you green with envy, Rino Fontana is Italy’s most famous wine collector. We sat down with the man himself to find out more about his journey into wine, incredible collection and obsession with one grape  

Antonio Galloni’s Wine Personality of the Year 2023, Rino Fontana is Italy’s most famous wine collector – we met the man to talk about his cellar

Rino Fontana – the wine collector like no other

Rino Fontana: a collector like no other

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

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

Wine’s land of promise – California

Land of promise: California

Treasure Cellars

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