It all started, as the best things in life often do, with a glass of wine and something of an epiphany. Budding Shanghai-based chef, Alex Xu, was holidaying with his then-girlfriend (now his wife) in New Zealand in 2012. It was their first trip together, and the pair had decided to do some tastings at wineries in Central Otago and Marlborough. One particular Pinot Noir they encountered awoke something in Xu. He didn’t know it at the time, but this was the first in a series of wine-tasting experiences that would change the course of his life. “We were on a tastings tour,” recalls Xu of the seminal moment. “There was a group of us travelling from winery to winery on a bus, but when we got to Aurum in Cromwell, our last stop of the day, the owner, Brook Lawrence, came and really spent some time with us. He walked and talked us through the vineyards, we tasted out of a barrel, and he opened a few bottles to taste. He talked about – in a very straightforward way – why each wine tasted a bit different even though they were all from the same parcel, essentially. He spoke to us about how there were different approaches to making wine from using whole-cluster or de-stemmed grapes, to oak, to length in barrel.” Sipping the wine as Lawrence spoke about the various methodologies and decisions that contribute to its flavour, made Xu realise in that moment, that the way wine is made – grown, picked and then prepared and vinified – is similar to the way a chef works. “I remember thinking, ‘Oh, making wine is like farming and cooking, but maybe the cycle is a bit longer.’” How flavours and textures work to deliver deliciousness in food is something that Xu was increasingly fascinated by, but his experience at Aurum that afternoon in 2012, opened his mind to the complexity of winemaking and the different elements at play in the glass and on his palate. “It was so fascinating to me to taste a wine made using 100% whole cluster and then compare it to essentially the same wine made using de-stemmed grapes. It was probably the first time I tasted wine and was simultaneously aware of how it was made. We’d visited maybe three wineries before Aurum, and I really remember how the tannins were entirely different, texturally, from anything else we had tasted. Those whole-cluster wines were much more expressive and seductive to me – specifically Aurum’s Madeleine Pinot Noir. It was spiced, really floral, lifted and bright. I already knew that I loved Pinot Noir, but that was a real ‘wow’ moment.” Shortly afterwards, Xu signed up to WSET, not because he knew he wanted to be a wine professional, “but simply to understand better what I was tasting and why I was enjoying those things,” he explains. The principles and tasting techniques he started to adopt soon began to feed into his approach to cooking.  “It gave me a kind of mental grid to help evaluate wines – colour, aroma, flavours, acidity, alcohol, tannin, body, intensity, complexity, length,” he explains. “On one super fun R&D trip to Tokyo to learn as much as I could about ramen, I applied that kind of thinking and rigour to how I evaluated a whole bunch of different varieties.” His interest in wine, it would seem, was sharpening Xu’s critical faculties and improving his ability to identify and appraise different elements of flavour. In 2015, just as he was making the final preparations to open his restaurant, Baoism, in Shanghai, Xu became ill with mononucleosis (glandular fever). Locked in a fever for days, he decided to head to the countryside to recuperate. More specifically, to his family’s country retreat in Yuhu Village in the foothills of the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain in rural Yunnan. Yunnan is one of China’s most southwestern provinces, lying south of Sichuan and bordering Tibet to the northwest, Myanmar to the west, and Laos and Vietnam to the south. There’s no heavy industry, making Yunnan one of the least polluted corners of China. Instead, its 394,000 square kilometres encompass snow-capped mountains, rice terraces, lakes, forests and agricultural land.  Xu describes Yunnan as ‘China’s breadbasket’, explaining that the variation across the province in elevation and climate means that the region enjoys a long growing season, yielding all kinds of gastronomic wonders that are prized throughout the country and beyond. As well as the tea, coffee and tobacco of central Yunnan, the province is probably best known for the wide variety of mushrooms it produces. Wild morels, porcini, truffles and a mushroom called matsutake or ‘pine mushroom’ in Japanese. Yunnan still exports tonnes upon tonnes of them to Japan each year, although they’re also enjoyed locally, sliced very thin and dipped in soy sauce and wasabi. The food of Yunnan reflects many influences. “I’m Han Chinese and that’s the majority ethnic group,” explains Xu, “but we have, I think, 25 different ethnic minorities in Yunnan. There are Tibetans, Laotians, ethnic Thai, ethnic Leong – and that’s just the tip of the cultural diversity iceberg. And even though we’re pretty far from Vietnam and Laos here in the Northwest, we still have a lot of lime and mint here. In the summer, the sun is really intense because of the high UV radiation at the altitude, so we eat a lot of foods that are very fresh. Our cuisine puts a lot of value on nuance and delicate complexity, rather than power and spice.” Xu’s Shanghai-resident parents holidayed in Yunnan in the early 2000s and fell in love with Yuhu Village. On discovering there was no running water, they helped the villagers build a pipeline from a glacier atop the mountain, and as a show of thanks, the villagers gave them some land on which they built a house.  Despite the abundance of beautiful fresh produce grown elsewhere in the province, the landscape around Yuhu Village is almost completely devoid of agriculture due to the barrenness of the soil. But its wide-open spaces and fresh mountain air (at an elevation of 2,800 metres) were the perfect tonic for Xu’s mononucleosis recovery. Within two days, he shook off the blanket under which he had been shivering for weeks and, almost suddenly, was back to rude health and able to enjoy being out in the sunshine and open countryside. And that’s when he saw something he’d never seen before: a group of villagers digging melon-sized rocks out of the ground. “I asked my friend what was going on,” says Xu, “and he explained that the rocky soil is so poor and so bad at retaining water that nothing really grows. So instead of harvesting crops, the locals dig up rocks that can be used for building projects.” Sloping landscape, poor and rocky soil, cool climate – something clicked in the back of Xu’s mind. “I remember thinking ‘Maybe we could plant vineyards here.’ It’s weird because there are no vineyards in that part of Yunnan, and I had never considered planting vines or making wine until that very moment.” Two weeks later, Xu was back in Shanghai, busier than ever as the head chef and proprietor of his just-opened restaurant. But he had made some calls, reaching out to friends about his ‘crazy idea’. He was introduced to David Tyney, an Australian viticultural consultant who had been working in New Zealand for around 15 years. Over the next 12 months, also working with Simon Clark and Feng Liu, they collaborated to establish whether or not growing vines would be feasible – installing a weather station, analysing soil samples and, ultimately, identifying a small parcel of land outside Xu’s village that had potential. Xu planted vines in May 2017 knowing that, at some point, he’d have to choose between the restaurant and the vineyard project. When his landlord got in touch later in the year to say that he was upping the rent at Baoism, it made the decision easier than anticipated. Now able to focus solely on the vineyard, Xu asked his viticultural consultant the best and fastest way to learn about making wine. The answer came: “Work vintages”. The memory of the Pinot Noirs he had tasted at Aurum called him back to New Zealand, where husband and wife team Brook and Lucie Lawrence welcomed Xu’s request to come and work the 2017 harvest with them as their only additional help managing their four-hectare site. “I’d heard from my consultants that making wine is very much like working in a kitchen,” says Xu. “It’s mostly cleaning but I would be there to work hard, observe and absorb. I was already used to a world where cleaning and physical labour were very much part of the job, but what I found on my first vintage, working with Lucie and Brook, was that winemaking has this incredible combination of intellectual curiosity and satisfaction.  You’re constantly thinking about how and why, trialling different things here and there, understanding how different viticultural or vinification decisions affect what ends up in the glass. Plus, you have this real satisfaction from doing physical labour that you don’t get in a lot of work. It had a pace that was a little bit slower than restaurants – still very intense – but it felt more sustainable. And at Aurum I saw that when people are really good at what they do, they kind of glide around the winery, the way great chefs glide around their kitchens. It made me want to become better. I understood that that’s what I want to be like, and I understood how the work would appeal to me. I also learned that this was a real business – that I couldn’t just throw myself into it without giving it proper respect.” One of Xu’s big learnings at Aurum was about quality over quantity. “They’d been hit hard in the economic crisis of 2008 and had to shed 10 hectares of their site, leaving them with just four. So they were down to bare bones. What they were doing, if they got it right, would just about support them.” A sobering thought, but Xu was inspired.  Despite the pressure they were under to make it work, he admired the decisions Brook and Lucie made in the field, in the winery and beyond. For example, as part of their uncompromising focus on quality, they held on to bottles for the amount of time they felt was necessary before releasing them. “While I was there, one of their 2014 Pinots (they make three) won Best Pinot Noir in New Zealand,” says Xu. “It was a testament to how good they are as winemakers.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, Xu trusted his tastebuds to lead him to his next vintage experience. In 2015, he had attended a blind tasting event in Hong Kong hosted by Jancis Robinson MW. One wine stood out. “The theme of the event was to blind taste Chardonnay and Pinot Noir wines from across the world,” says Xu, “and I look up to Jancis immensely, so I felt I had to be there. As everyone does at some point or another, Jancis called one wine completely wrong. What she had called as ‘a great, great white Burgundy’, turned out to be a Quartz Chardonnay by Australian winery, Bindi. When it was revealed, Jancis wasn’t surprised: ‘It’s a Bindi? Of course, that makes sense,’ and she spoke about how serious the work is there and how great the winemakers are.” As Xu contemplated the delicious liquid in his glass, he found himself thinking what a triumph it was for New World wine; that it in the unprejudiced environment of a blind tasting event, the Jancis Robinson had put an Aussie Chardonnay in the same quality bracket as top white Burgundy.  Having sought out and enjoyed Bindi wines on several subsequent occasions, Xu applied to work the 2018 vintage with owner-winemaker Michael Dhillon. Though almost twice as big in size as Aurum’s, Bindi’s operation was still small enough for Xu to have a hand in everything during the vintage. And beyond the day-to-day harvest and winemaking work, Xu got to taste and discuss wines with Michael and his family in the evenings. “What was wonderful at Bindi was, because I was living with the family, I cooked a lot for them – almost every night – and they opened a lot of very special bottles. I found that so valuable; that they shared so many incredible wines with me, that we talked about them, and they were able to articulate why those wines appealed to them. And the wines weren’t all monolithic, there was quite a bit of variation in how the wines were built, structurally, even in the grape varieties, but you could see that Michael had a very clear idea of what he valued, of what mattered in wine to him. I realised that I needed to do that too, that my responsibility to my work, to my dream, wasn’t just about becoming a technician – simply knowing how to make wine – because that’s not enough. I needed to figure out what matters to me, to understand it and to be able to articulate it, and to evaluate wine from that vantage point.” Xu still speaks to Dhillon regularly, having gained a mentor as well as invaluable experience. He has also stayed in touch with Brook and Lucie at Aurum. In fact, when he mentioned to them that he was keen to do a vintage at Domaine Dujac in Burgundy, they told Xu that they knew the Seysses family personally, and would be happy to write a recommendation. They did, and Xu was offered a spot on Dujac’s 2018 harvest crew. “That was such a nice moment for me and a really great example of how people in the wine industry are much less directly competitive than people in restaurants,” says Xu. “There’s a much greater sense of sharing knowledge, and I love that. It’s still amazing to me, not just how much information the best winemakers in the world are willing to share about how they make their secret sauce, but also that they’re willing to go out of their way to help people like me find opportunities to learn and grow.” Xu’s winemaking learning curve and his palate education continued apace at Dujac under the tutelage of Jeremy Seysses and his wife Diana (who splits her time between Dujac and Napa where she is the winemaker at both her family vineyard, Snowden, and Ashes & Diamonds). Xu was one of just four stagiaires along with a sommelier from a 3-star Michelin restaurant in New York and a young but experienced Australian couple, who were all encouraged to take it in turns to choose four bottles from the cellars to open in the evenings after a hard day’s work.  “They would give us the inventory for the cellar and say ‘Ok, pick four wines and we’ll blind taste them.’ It was so much fun! We would taste and talk – and the really cool thing was that most of the wines we were trying were made by the family’s friends at neighbouring domaines. When you blind taste with people, you start to understand what they like, what they don’t like, and particularly how they think about wine. Because we were in the winery tasting the fermenting wines every day, and also out of barrels – when it came to tasting these amazing bottles every evening, we really got a sense of what Jeremy and his father Jacques valued in wine. It was such a privilege – so many wines I’ll never taste again but will remember forever.” Xu particularly remembers the wine he tasted on the evening of Jeremy’s birthday. Diana asked him to cook a special birthday meal (Chinese dumplings from scratch), while Jeremy brought up some very special bottles from the cellar. Two bottles of La Tâche – a 1966 and a ’72 – for starters, and Xu’s eyes glaze over at the memory of them. “Those wines were magical to me. First of all, the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti (DRC) bottles in the Dujac cellars are direct exchanges because the families are close. Aubert de Villaine is the godfather of Jeremy’s son – he came to lunch one day, and I think I was slack-jawed the entire time – but you know, those wines had entered the cellars in the 60s and not moved. Talk about pristine storage conditions – they’d travelled only a few kilometres to get there! The next thing to say is that these tasting experiences were my first with Pinot Noir that old – around 50 years.  Tasting them was mind-blowing as I had no concept of what it would look and taste like at that age, but simultaneously a validation of all the things that I love about Pinot Noir. 1966 was one of those years, a bit like 2017, where the vintage produced wines that people just drank straight out the gate as it was so delicious.  People didn’t really know if wine like that would fare well over time. But tasting it confirmed that the ’66 La Tâche had retained the balance it started with. Yes, it had gained all the savoury, leather and undergrowth characteristics, but all the purity of fruit and aromatic expressiveness and complexity still formed the core of the wine. But maybe the roses had gone from fresh to dried, and strawberries from fresh to gently baked – but the sweetness and succulence, the perfume and the spice, everything was still there. The ’72 was interesting too because, unlike the ’66, it was a really difficult vintage. And yet the wine had aged remarkably gracefully – all the elements were there, it was just a bit quieter perhaps, less intense than the ’66.” Xu also remembers Jeremy opening a magnum of 1964 Clos de la Pousse d’Or – the first vintage made by Gérard Potel whom Jeremy’s father, Jacques, had worked with and learned a lot from. “The magnum was pristine, and the wine exhibited all the things I love about Burgundy: perfume, texture, massive complexity and spice. You know that way that Pinot Noir can be weightless without being light or lacking intensity or energy? It had this weightless intensity and a savoury complexity that was just stunning. So beautiful.” Through the wines Xu was tasting, he wasn’t just building a vision for the kinds of wine he hopes to make in Yunnan, he was starting to understand something much more profound – the kind of life in wine he wants to make for himself. At the end of his season at Dujac, when Jeremy asked him if he wanted to visit some other Burgundy domaines to do some tasting and maybe think about where next to approach to do a vintage (as a result of the subsequent tastings – and Dujac’s influence – Xu worked the 2019 vintage with Pierre-Yves Colin-Morey), Xu had perhaps the biggest epiphany on his wine adventure to date. He knew that he didn’t just want to nurture fruit on the vine and turn it into wine, but also – like his own mentors – nurture and encourage like-minded people to follow their noses, awaken and educate their palates, and start their own wine adventures. With just under three hectares of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay vines planted on the south-facing slopes of his Miao Lu vineyard in Yunnan, Xu is fully committed to maintaining more than a flow of vinified grape juice in the coming years. The knowledge and passion that flows freely around the vigneron’s dinner table, and the convivial spirit of generosity Xu discovered at each world-class winery, are just as important to his vision for Miao Lu. Yes, making exquisite, thoughtful wine with love and care is vital – but so too is the culture of sharing, savouring and celebrating good wine in good company, and raising a well-nosed glass – as often as possible – to hard work, friendship, and the magic you simply can’t bottle. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

FONDATA’s Gavin Lucas speaks to the restaurateur-turned-winegrower Alex Xu about the series of epiphanic moments in the company of great winemakers that completely reshaped his future

Restaurateur-turned-winegrower Alex Xu shares the series of epiphanic moments with great winemakers that completely reshaped his future

FONDATA: Epiphany Wines

Epiphany Wines 

Rum has been positioned as the next big thing. The one to watch. The spirits category to steal market share from Scotch whisky and the sure-bet to clean up when that gin bubble finally bursts. These claims have been made for the past five years, if not longer. When you look at the figures, which don’t tell the whole story but are a good starting point, rum has been in rude health since 2018 when sales in the UK surpassed the £1 billion mark for the first time. This same year, a rum was named the best spirit at one of the most prestigious blind tasting competitions for the first time. Rum, for many, had finally arrived. “What has changed in the industry is what we can bring to market,” Master Distiller Richard Seale says, in a typically matter-of-fact and non-marketeer way. “So, it is not so much that we are changed in our rum making but today we can think to invest in very old rums, we can think to release cask strength rums, we can offer more specialised rums like pot still or pure cane juice rums and we can think about non-traditional markets – like the Far East. Twenty years ago the market for any of this was extremely limited.” Seale’s family-owned Foursquare Distillery in Barbados was the winner of the aforementioned 2018 blind tasting and the awards have continued to rain down on them since. While always destined to join the family business, Seale says that didn’t necessarily mean a career in rum, other than to sell. “What happened was the year I officially joined, my father made the biggest acquisition we had ever made in acquiring the Martin Doorly and Alleyne Arthur brands. This made for two big changes: one, we would have to invest in aged stocks as these were premium brands and two, we would start exporting. This naturally drew my focus.” Rum has been produced in the Caribbean for centuries. Historically, the new-make was sold to brokers and blenders in much the same way as Scotch whisky. Whereas Scotch distilleries started to bottle single malts from the 1970s, most rum producers wouldn’t have the epiphany to move away from a purely bulk model for another 20 years. It was from this time that rum brands as we know them began to appear in the European market. El Dorado from Guyana, for example, had been produced for centuries before it was marketed for the first time in the early 1990s. Similarly, Hampden Estate, which had been producing rum since 1753, only came to market in 2018. Legendary Trinidadian rum Caroni never actually saw the light of day as a brand in the traditional sense before it closed for good in 2003. “The rum category has changed out of all recognition,” Ken Grier, Creative Director at Colombian brand Dictador, says. “It has progressed from a white and dark mixable spirit to a premium spirit aged in good quality oak casks.” The reason for this progress is down to a multitude of factors – one of which is the realisation that rum has tremendous breadth and depth. “People have realised the rum world has a beautiful range of quality liquid to offer at the top end (rather than just the stock-standard ‘every bar has a bottle of this’ at the low end) and it has encouraged the rum-curious to be more adventurous,” Mitch Wilson, Black Tot Global Brand Ambassador, says. “We’re even starting to lead astray some of our more open-minded whisky brethren who are used to having to pay several times the price for a bottle of their favourite malts,” he adds. Wilson says better access to rums and rum makers have also contributed to this seed change. During the pandemic, the world in many ways got smaller and rum makers who had previously shied away from using technology were forced to embrace it (wifi permitting) to ensure their survival. He says thousands of people came together to discuss sugarcane spirits and meaningful connections were established between rum producers in the Caribbean and their ever-growing appreciators. Physical access to rums has also changed in recent years. Historically, French markets would predominantly sell rhum Agricole (made from sugarcane juice) from the likes of Martinique and Guadeloupe, and English speaking countries would typically sell rums from Barbados and other Caribbean islands, limiting the discovery of rums. As this has shifted, so too has the understanding and appreciation of rum. Similarly, social media has narrowed the gulf and empowered distilleries and rum enthusiasts to disseminate accurate information on rum and campaign against perceived wrongdoings. “In any spirits category there are many different levels of quality available,” Wilson explains. “I firmly believe that anyone who loves spirits but doesn’t love rum yet, just hasn’t tried the right rum for them. Perhaps their perceptions are skewed by some cheap bottle of rum they had when they were younger, or the fact that the average pub or supermarket might not offer a particularly premium selection (especially when considered next to the other spirits offerings).” Now things are changing, Wilson believes everybody has the chance to explore the very best of each spirits category and not just the “commercial rank and file” if they are willing to spend a little more on quality liquid. And rum is no different. “There are some exceptional rums that are of comparable quality to their favourite spirits,” he adds. In the same way whisky has its hard-core enthusiasts who are authorities on the subject in their own right, certain rums have developed a cult following which has driven up the cost of bottlings of certain styles from certain distilleries. High ester rums, for example, are a source of great fervour among rum fans. Jamaica is arguably the godfather of this style, with Réunion Island and a few other French territories also famed for this funky rum that in many cases wasn’t produced for consumption. Part of its appeal, according to Daniele Bondi from La Maison & Velier, is that high esters satiate in a way that whisky currently does not – on the matter of fermentation. “Historically, whisky has never spoken about raw materials or about the fermentation,” Bondi says. “Whisky normally speaks about the ageing, the master blender, and the magic. Here it is more a matter of raw materials so it is another point of view.” This point of difference and palate-altering taste is gaining in popularity. Bondi and others are quick to caution that it might be unwise to follow high ester count alone, in the same way whisky fans have pursued age statements. “It’s important not to chase the highest level of ester regardless the quality,” he says. “Esters are classified by quantity, and we know that connoisseurs love numbers on label, like for the ageing, where the worst mistake is the highest number equals the best. Also in ester amount this is a mistake: what is important is the balance of the product.” Another comparison that can be drawn with the whisky world and collectability is mothballed and closed distilleries. There have been several significant closures in the rum world – Caroni arguably being the most devastating to rum enthusiasts almost 20 years ago. Blends from closed distilleries, proprietary bottlings from a single distillery, and rums that have been produced via methods that have long since been lost have all become collectors’ items and driven scarcity in the category. While there is a market for these collectors’ items, Wilson feels true excitement towards rums that are currently flying under the radar. “You can get tremendous rums for incredible value and have something really enjoyable to explore,” he adds. “This may not always be the case though – we are already starting to see incredible demand for rums like Foursquare, Velier, and Caroni bottlings, all of which command multiple times their retail price at auction mere days after they are launched and sold out. “Even with the demand for rum going up, it is still incredible value when compared to liquid of a similar quality from the whisky categories.” For many reasons, we’re in the eye of a perfect storm for rum. Its high quality credentials, point of difference, and the tireless campaigning of certain individuals to put an end to the nefarious practices of some, ensure that rum is finally having its time in the sunshine. “If ever there was a time to build your rum collection, it was 10 years ago,” Wilson says. “The next best time is right now.” Explore rum or read more Editorial

Rum is one of the most misunderstood spirits categories. Burdened with less-than-premium associations of pirates and insipid cocktails, it’s taken a long time for the authentic, remarkable liquid to break through the malaise

Exploring how rum has grappled with misconceptions and finally started to be taken seriously for its authentic, remarkable liquid.

The evolution of rum

If my wife and I are lolling around on the sofa, sharing a bottle of wine and listening to jazz, I’ll sometimes ask, in tones combining the genial authority of a quizmaster with the tacit menace of a Stasi interrogator, “Who do you think is playing bass?” Or piano. Or drums. If she doesn’t know, I respond with appalled astonishment because it’s so obvious (you only need to hear a couple of notes) that it’s Charlie Haden. Or McCoy Tyner or Max Roach or whoever. When I was studying jazz in the 1980s (by studying I mean getting as stoned as possible with my friends) we’d play records for each other without revealing the identities of the musicians and, in this way, I built up an instinctive database of who sounded like whom. Of course, that’s not all I was doing, back then. I was also swilling gallons of beer and respectable quantities of wine, both of which I consumed with just as much pleasure as I listened to music. The difference is that with wine, I never paid any attention to what I was drinking, where what I was drinking had come from, or what grapes might have gone into it. Still don’t, actually. So, while my wife sometimes doesn’t know who she’s listening to, I rarely know what I’m drinking. Now, if my enjoyment of jazz is enhanced by knowing who I’m hearing, when an album was recorded, how a given version of a tune compares with other versions by different musicians and so on, does it follow that my enjoyment of wine is correspondingly diminished by ignorance and indifference as to its provenance and ingredients? Am I sitting around liking what I like while unable to tell whether what I’m liking is a bottle of Kenny G or vintage Sonny Rollins? To answer this question and address the larger issue, a bit of history is helpful (isn’t it always?). I grew up in a non-drinking household. We knew that other people drank wine with dinner but this was seen as an exotic, middle-class custom, as removed from our own potential experience as the tribal rites featured in National Geographic. No one we knew drank wine except the homemade kind – blackberry, pear, potato etc – that my parents made, stored in the cupboard under the stairs and offered to thirsty relatives who came to visit. Bearing no relation to wine as usually conceived, this beverage was more akin to a potent species of cider. Ah cider! As was the case for all boys of my generation, cider proved such an effective conduit to getting blind drunk that I’ve not been able to face even a sniff of the stuff since a horribly enjoyable first encounter. Same with Cinzano Bianco, but I’ve never turned my back on beer. As part of the general drift into all matters alcoholic, I drank a bit of Liebfraumilch (yum) but didn’t encounter anything like the notion of a ‘good’ wine until I was at Oxford. (The fact that I had to wait till then is a good indicator of the class status of wine in the UK back in the 1970s.) One day a fellow-student at my college offered to sell some bottles of what he pimped as “excellent red wine.” Three of us forked out for six between us. It was great. Sort of peppery tasting. We glugged the lot in one evening and I was violently sick, from my friend’s window, into the lane outside (a reversal of Charles Ryder’s first encounter, in Brideshead Revisited, with Sebastian Flyte who pukes into his room), but I was on my winey way. Most boozing took place in the pub (beer) but, as I gradually got used to drinking wine at dinners and at art openings, an unreliable and poorly projected map of wine awareness began to take shape.  In my early 30s, there was a Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon for which I developed a particular fondness. At three quid a bottle it seemed more appropriate, even then, to cut it down to three syllables: Bulg-Cab-Sauv. Then came the news that the contents of any bottle could be improved by being allowed to breathe. Sometime later, living in Paris, I got wind of a crude truth that you could tell a better wine by how far you could stick your finger in its bottom, in the whatever-it’s-called at the base of the bottle. The further the better was the rule of thumb, so to speak, though why this should be the case I never discovered. These were excellent, easy-to-implement tips but the bigger picture remained blurry. I knew there were regions, different kinds of grape, but I was never sure which was which (Burgundy always sounded like a type of brandy) and I knew enough to know that it wasn’t enough to know that you liked a Merlot, say; you also needed to know what was going on within that species of grape or region, that certain brands and years were better than others. Although a drawing of a château on the label could be a good sign, it was not an infallible one, especially when some high-quality wines began to feature labels that shared an aesthetic with edible marijuana products or t-shirt design. And over all this uncertainty hung a larger cloud of astonishment – a symptom of the world’s fathomless ability to defy logic – generated by the ‘fact’ (I still have trouble accepting it as such) that white wine is not necessarily made from white grapes, nor red from red. Even when we factor in the odd big Tuscan moment in Italy, or Pinot epiphany in New Zealand, my understanding has not advanced significantly in the last 20 years. I know what I like but, as with many things – learning German, for example – I feel I’ve left it too late. Any attempts I make are the equivalent of looking up the occasional word in an online Deutsch-English dictionary. One can often spend one’s way to an enhanced experience, but my natural skinflintery means I prefer my father-in-law’s model, whereby he had knowledged his way to improved enjoyment. He not only serves fantastic wine, without exception, on every occasion; he always serves wine that costs a fraction of how it tastes.  I like this approach but, to borrow the term from London’s taxi drivers, I’ve never done the knowledge. I’m like the new generation of Uber drivers who rely so passively on their phones’ navigation apps that, after years behind the wheel, they still have almost no idea where they’re going. My phone comes in handy too. If I drink a fantastic wine at a friend’s house, I’ll take a picture of the label and, if it’s in stock at a local store, will buy a case. It’s nice being able to repeat a pleasing experience but it’s rarely as nice as I remember it and often not nice in the way that I remembered it. Or, if it’s nice at first, it almost always seems less nice, months later, when I’m down to the last couple of bottles. There are as many moving parts in the world of wine appreciation as there are in and around the mouth.  We have moved, by a combination of association and anatomy, to the potential source of the difficulty, to language. Having failed to acquire home-grown expertise, I am at the mercy of advice from the people who work in wine stores. Overall, I would estimate that this has resulted in a 50% success rate at twice the necessary expenditure. Is this because of shortcomings in their expertise and counsel, or is it due to linguistic failure, to inadequate translations of their knowledge into my preferences? We are told there’s no accounting for taste, which is not true, but it seems there are multiple problems with recounting one’s tastes or satisfying other people’s desires. Compared with sex where you can easily get by with half a dozen verbs and nouns, saying either what you want from a wine – or what it will do for someone else – demands a linguistic dexterity that is almost Joycean. We have all sat entranced as a waiter’s attempts to do justice to the merits of a given wine begin to sound like a libationary remix of Chomsky’s “Colourless green ideas sleep furiously.” But even while allowing for scepticism, incomprehension and constant proximity to parody, I continue to wonder about the extent to which my experience of wine would be enhanced by becoming more articulate in la langue du raisin. ‘Smooth’ is generally considered a good quality (as opposed to ‘rough’) but Kenny G, a purveyor of ‘smooth jazz’, is tacitly at odds with ‘complexity’. I can sort of appreciate complexity in a wine, without any understanding of how that complexity is constituted but – a defining character flaw – am more often conscious of a lack of complexity.  The strange thing is that while wine appreciation is not like a foal’s ability to get up and running straight away, it does find its feet over time. Even if uninformed, un-cultivated and left to fend for itself without any supporting help, it seems one’s tastes in wine not only change; they improve of their own accord. This might be considered a welcome, accidentally ameliorative side-effect of getting older. Or would be were it not for the fact – one I have no trouble accepting – that this improvement manifests itself negatively, as a steadily increasing capacity for dissatisfaction. To put it simply, what might have seemed an excellent wine a few years earlier becomes merely tolerable because of a lack of what may or may not be complexity. The tolerable becomes unacceptable, and the unacceptable becomes vile. My tongue has become more responsive to taste while remaining tied; my discernment is entirely inarticulate. The product, above all else, of laziness, this manifests itself in several unattractive ways. Do women on a date prefer men who take control of the wine menu? (Could this be the civilised residue of what was once a more widespread assumption and acceptance of male domination?) My own dating history leads me to suspect that they might, though the belief that the evening gets off to a bad start – with my saying, “I don’t know anything about wine, you choose” – is more palatable than conceding that it might have more to do with the way it ends (with my saying, “Let’s split the check”) or, come to think of it, with the middle passage (constantly refilling my own glass while droning on, without interruption, about the musical complexity of Ornette Coleman). It’s not just laziness and tightness, there’s also the question of sophistication and refinement. I can eat with chopsticks – I really can! – but have never been able to master the knack of swirling wine round the glass and forensically nosing it. You can do it, I’m sure, but I always feel like I’m engaged in such a blatant affectation that the first flicker of an erotic bond starts to form between my date and the waiter because they can tell that I’m parroting the action without any idea of what I’m attempting to discover, that it’s obvious to anyone watching that my head is entirely filled with a single idea: keep the cost down. In this regard, price, I am pleased to report that limited progress has been made. In my mid-20s, in London, I was sometimes invited to the house of the writer Lisa Appignanesi who was at the centre of London’s intellectual and cultural life. Well-mannered enough not to arrive empty-handed, I’d stop off at the off-licence near her house and pick up the cheapest bottle of discounted plonk on offer. Lisa always accepted this shabby gift graciously (she did everything graciously), while making sure that it never darkened the table. It now seems one of the rudest things one can do, to show up at someone’s house with a crap bottle of wine, though where crapness begins or ends is anyone’s guess. A shitty bottle of wine is always over-priced, is always money wasted. At the opposite end of the scale, my limited experience of drinking very expensive wine has confirmed what I had always expected: that it’s wasted on me. I ooh and ah, naturally and gratefully, but even though I enjoy these $200 bottles I am thinking: well, it’s not 170 bucks better than a 30 dollar bottle. Perhaps from a certain point – $100 upwards? – you have to pay twice that for a tiny percentage improvement in experience. That makes sense. If this were not the case, then a $1,000 bottle would surely bear so little relation to wine that it wouldn’t be wine at all. We now have sufficient linguistic tools available to describe my ideal relationship with wine. When I think of wine, it’s never as a drink or a taste experience but always as part of an occasion, part of a narrative. What I love is going to a dinner at a restaurant with a non-clamorous acoustic (wood and carpet, not metal and concrete) and a limited menu (I hate choosing food), knowing that someone else will take care of ordering the wine which will flow without let or hindrance. The problem at my father-in-law’s is that although the wine is always excellent, there’s never an infinite amount of it. And what I want from wine, above all, is more. That’s the key word in all this. I love talk and the progression of conversation as the wine makes itself felt: the glow of friends’ eyes, the flow of chat. Red wine, reflections of the room and of candlelight in the glasses full of wine. Everything is held together by the wine, even though that wine is less important than the people, the subject, the jokes and laughter. The wonderful remarks become more wonderful as the evening unfolds, until nothing anybody says really makes any sense at all. In the morning I will not remember the details of the wine or the food. What I will remember is the warm glow, the happiness of it all.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine. Photography by Marcus Nilsso.

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine.

FONDATA: The Mirth of More

The Mirth of More

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