There are interviews, and there are conversations. And this meeting with Italian cashmere tycoon, Brunello Cucinelli, definitely falls into the category of the latter. Cucinelli has conquered the world with his products, his perception of style and beauty, and has published a book outlining his particular approach to doing business which he defines as “humanistic capitalism”.   This distinction between interview and conversation is a necessary contemplation; understanding the meaning behind the words, selecting them carefully, tasting each of them in a silent meditation. This is, in fact, the first step to allowing you into Cucinelli’s world, where external quality is just as important as inner quality. To him, as to late 18th century German philosopher Kant, beauty is a moral interest.   The word “interview” is composed of two parts: “inter”, which implies reciprocity, and “view”, which refers to sight; each looking at the other, trying to truly see. It is not a given that this is always successful.   A conversation, however, is different. The word derives from the Latin “conversari”, composed of “con” meaning “with” or “together”, and “versari”: to reside, to find oneself. It is a meeting – a graceful way of getting to know each other, or getting to know each other better. It is a way to agree upon certain behaviours and visions in order to truly share a physical place, as well as a state of being. In this conversation, we meet Brunello Cucinelli in Solomeo, Umbria, Italy. He reminisces that, The New York Times once published a map of must-see places in Italy – in which Solomeo was included along with Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples. Cucinelli states this with no small amount of pride.  Despite the lockdown, and an obligation to talk through a screen, encouraged by both the pandemic and by a sense of caution, Solomeo is truly the location of our meeting – and not just because Il Sogno di Solomeo (The Dream of Solomeo) is the title of his book, in which he recounts his life story, the roots of his success, and his vision as an “entrepreneurial custodian”. Solomeo enters through the window, breathing audibly in the background of the words and thoughts which define our conversation. It speaks through Cucinelli’s expressions, bringing to light a kind of organised peace within his sense of time, its horizons are centuries-old, and reside in diligent silence. It speaks of a knowledge acquired through generations passed, to be shared with generations to come.  We are in Umbria, just 15 minutes from Perugia and only one hour from Florence. Only 800 people live in Solomeo – a stunning, almost-abandoned medieval village brought back to life by skilful restoration work led by Cucinelli over the last 25 years. The village of Solomeo was revitalised as an allusion to Rome, the city of Emperor Hadrian’s soul, according to French novelist and essayist Marguerite Yourcenar. Creativity needs a “genius loci”, a safe space. Cucinelli restored a village that was “robust, useful, and beautiful”, as instructed by Vitruvius. Onora tutti gliuomini (“honour all men”) is the inscription displayed in Solomeo’s Piazza delleArti, and is also the motto which inspired Cucinelli’s humanistic capitalism. He believes gift-giving to be one of the kindest forms of the soul, and he loves to give presents of homemade oils and wines; believing that, in every gift, there is also a piece of Solomeo.   Cucinelli’s love of philosophy, and his habit of allowing the great minds of history to dictate his approach to beauty, is also a lesson Cucinelli learned in youth as a farmer, when he used to pull the ox plough and till the fields. In the evenings, his father would encourage him to admire the beauty of those ploughed fields, the neat ridges stretching over the hills.   His sensitivity to the idea of living in harmony with nature was born from this, as was his ability to recognise that there is greater value in that which is carried out with beauty in mind. His more practical attention to the selection of raw materials also stemmed from these roots – his respect for producers and collaborators, and his ability to think in terms of centuries, not years. All this has rendered Brunello Cucinelli one of the world’s most famous luxury brands.   Beauty is also a form of truth. As three Buddhist monks remarked to him, upon visiting him in Solomeo, there are three things which cannot remain hidden: the sun, the moon and truth. In order to live well, beauty requires you to take care of your soul, your mind and your body. This is why, at Cucinelli’s company, at half past five in the evening, the computers are switched off, the working day completed. The body, mind and soul need a life outside work, to be able to look themselves in the eye and overcome the “soul-ache” that creativity can also help to alleviate.  To him, beauty is also a business method; his humanistic capitalism was not cast aside even during the crisis sparked by Covid, during which time Cucinelli did not let a single employee go, or ask for any discounts from producers or suppliers. This is part of an ethical business vision which considers humanity as an end, and never as a means; it is defined by considering the businessman as a “custodian of creation”. Developing this idea of being a custodian, Cucinelli sees that luxe can be interpreted as an orchestrator of sustainable development.   Brunello Cucinelli smiles. He likes the words of 15th century Florentine Republic ruler, Lorenzo the Magnificent – “How beautiful is youth, / though quickly it does flee! / be happy if you want to: / for tomorrow may not come” – which recall an Italian sense of national pride. Although home to only 0.7% of the globe’s population, Italy boasts one of the the world’s top 10 economies; it excels at quality manufacturing and craftsmanship; it offers a welfare state which leaves no one trailing behind. He sees a great country and a golden era, in spite of the crisis. He does so with a pinch of the “Italiote”, as Plato called the people of Syracuse when he reached Sicily from Greece, “a population which feasts twice a day and never goes to bed alone”.  We are also like this, he says, before returning to consider the ideas of creativity and responsibility. “It really is possible to live in harmony with creation. And this makes us custodians, not consumers. I also think of my product as something to be desired, something to be inherited. That is why I chose cashmere. I wanted something that was already precious. I’ve learnt to transform it over time. I’ve made mistakes, had teachers and guardian angels that have helped me and taught me. But the principle was already clear to me, right from the beginning: to create beauty, you need to begin with something beautiful, from an exceptional raw material. And you also need to believe that it will last for centuries, not for years. Before it became fashionable, we had already opened a restyling and reusing department for our garments. Because, for a jumper to be beautiful and precious, it must also stand the test of time.”   “Verum factum”, as stated by 17th century Italian political philosopher Giambattista Vico: nothing is true unless it has been done. The humanistic capitalism in Solomeo is evident: an art of Renaissance-style trading which has taken over the world, yes. But it has done so with honour. It possesses a beauty which is markedly exclusive, moving against the crisis of civilisation. It is something that manages to make itself be considered as rare, something precious, only for you. It requires time, artisanal hard work and precision, fighting against the culture of impatience. In fact, Solomeo’s theatre is crafted from hand-cut stones, with walls built to endure. The company itself is located within a restored factory which opens out onto gardens and spaces where it is impossible not to inhale the surrounding beauty.  Most of the employees and managers within Cucinelli are young: this is because they are hard workers. It is also because beauty and fairness produce brilliance. Cucinelli is the one to engender this genius. “Oh, myesteemed men!” (O miei stimati uomini!) Cucinelli quotes Marcus Aurelius. It is from this statement that he has learnt to recognise value, to respect and admire, and to never rise above dignity. He applies the concept of remote working only when strictly necessary, because creativity dwindles and becomes degraded by a lack of human contact.   The story of humanistic capitalism is so long to recount (and so wonderful to hear) that Cucinelli has summarised it within his book, Il Sogno di Solomeo. These ideas, typically influenced by previous generations, took inspiration from the manual The Book of the Art of Trade by Benedetto Cotrugli – an Italian merchant during the Renaissance era – which speaks about “getting rich honourably”. One can choose whether to be “a seeker of work or a creator of work”: therefore, an entrepreneur is someone who creates development for themselves and for others. On one hand, there is the revaluation of the role of whoever decides to take this risk; on the other, there is the idea that they are doing so by enforcing a strong sense of ethic. A sort of return to business. An important lesson.  Cucinelli notes that, in Cotrugli’s story, this is fulfilled out of duty rather than pleasure. The death of his father in 1438 forced him to abandon his studies and take the reins of the family business. This was during a time when Italy was bestowing the Renaissance upon the world; and Cotrugli, who originated from Ragusa (currently known as Dubrovnik – which, at the time, was considered the fifth Italian Maritime Republic), was catapulted to Naples, in an environment where ethics and morals evidently left a lot to be desired. The family business, and by extension, he as the owner, “bought wool in Barcelona; turned it into cloth and thread in Florence and Prato, to then sell it on again in Constantinople and Venice”. Cotrugli travelled, visiting cities which formed the heart of that golden era. He breathed in the air of Florence, which was, at the time, Europe’s most powerful guild, and produced figures such as Donatello, Masaccio and Brunelleschi.   Among the 15 golden rules for “getting rich honourably” outlined within The Book of the Art of Trade, Cucinelli feels a “deep resonance” not only because of its modernity and its entrepreneurial insight, “but mostly for the system of values it imposes and passes on”, to “get rich honourably” by creating work and development with consistency. And he thinks back to the crisis, echoing the words of Roman statesman Marcus Tullius Cicero, as quoted by Cotrugli: we must not waver in the face of adversity or lose ourselves in our own prosperity. “Let’s talk about what this year has brought us, not what it has taken from us,” he states.   And this is the truest representation of a dedicated and kind businessman, who has spent half his time gazing up at the stars and loves to watch a fire flicker because it makes him “drunk on pleasant thoughts”. Life is blessed. We eat only what we must, so that there is enough for everyone. There was Seneca, there was Epicurus, and now there is the wonderful dream of Brunello Cucinelli and his beloved Solomeo. He spends his years contemplating centuries past and considering those to come. This, in itself, is a rare form of immortality.  In 2011, Cucinelli planted vines in the valley below Solomeo, and the first vintage of the wine made from this special site – 2018 Castello di Solomeo – is available from FINE+RARE. Read more about the project. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

As Brunello Cucinelli launches his new wine project – Castello di Solomeo – we dig into the philosophy of the designer behind Italy’s cashmere empire. Educator and business guru Germana di Falco sits down with the fashion icon to discuss his philosophy on business and life itself 

Italian cashmere tycoon and fashion designer Brunello Cucinelli on his new wine project Castello di Solomeo and his business philosophy 

Brunello Cucinelli – the fashion philosopher

Brunello Cucinelli: the fashion philosopher 

The vines are organically-farmed on a 15-hectare estate planted on white marl in the hamlet of Quintaine, just north of Clessé. Jean Thevenet and his son Gautier take their time producing their wines and retain traditional methods passed down from generation to generation. Ever since taking over the family estate in 1972 Jean has never been one to follow trends – keeping yields low (between 35-45 hectoliters per hectare) and picking purely on taste rather than relying on any data analytics from the lab. They have never been afraid to pick later than their peers due to their wines' amazing ability to retain acidity and freshness thanks to their unique marl blanche soils.  Even in a warmer vintage like 2015, Gautier says “you don’t feel the heat, the marl soil always providing a bitterness that offsets the fruit. If anything in 2015 the heat of the vintage has only brought a really incredible structure to the wine.” On tasting, its true – the wine is incredibly rich and fresh and finishes with a wonderful mineral salinity. For now, Gautier has not felt the bad effects of climate change, currently the warmer vintages are just bringing more complexity, structure and richness to the wines. For the 2015s, Gautier picked the grapes on the 17th September, which he states is not that much later than others in the region and perhaps just a week earlier than normal. Over the years he has learnt to trust in his terroir and even with such low yields (three times lower than the limits of the appellation) he needs to give the grapes time to reach optimum ripeness. The art of élevage Using no tricks to speed up the process, the wine ferments at a snail's pace under wild yeasts, producing a unique viscous-like texture and thanks to its distinct marl blanche soils a vibrant minerality and laser-like acidity. Grapes are left to hang on the vines until they are ultraripe. The grapes are then gently squeezed in a Coquard press until every ounce of flavour and all the intensely honeyed aromatics have been harvested. The wines undergo ultra-long fermentation and aged on the fine lees, and held back in the cellars at the domaine's expense, only being released when they are deemed ready to drink. These wines have amazing ageing ability too. Just recently William Kelley (Wine Advocate) talked about how the 1989 Viré-Clessé is drinking at its peak now at 30 years of age. Henri Jayer once said that a winemaker needs a chair. Less intervention, more reflection. This is somewhat mirrored in Jean Thevenet’s motto: “Terroir is to wine what a composer is to music. The winemaker being only the conductor.” In the cellars of Domaine de la Bongran intervention is minimal, with fermentations sometimes taking up to two years. Appellation controversy Despite Domaine de la Bongran being the most respected and appraised wine in the region, at the outset of the newly declared Viré-Clessé appellation in 1999, the wines of Domaine de la Bongran failed to qualify. The excuse from the IANO (administrative body) was that the levels of residual sugar were not considered “suitable” expressions of the region. Under these  new appellation rules the wines had to have a residual sugar level lower than 2g/litre, forcing Domaine de la Bongran to declassify down to Macon Villages. Following the extreme temperatures in 2003 all producers in the region produced wines with residual sugar over 2g/litre and therefore collaboratively put pressure on the IANO to increase the allowance up to 4g/litre allowing Bongran’s Viré-Clessé to qualify under the more premium Vire Clesse Appellation. For a body whose aim is to protect quality, specifically against over-cropping, the initial decision to omit the wines of Domaine de la Bongran seemed extraordinary, although it's fair to say the reputation of the winery precedes the appellation and if anything their inclusion has only elevated the status of the appellation. The wines The Viré-Clessé, also known as Cuvée Tradition, is the principal wine made at the estate, offering rich complexity, freshness and power with finesse. The wine is easily a match for the best of Puligny or Chassagne-Montrachet, they are examples of the heights that can be achieved with traditional winemaking methods. The Cuvée Levrouté (or Levroutee) is their off-dry wine typically around 18g/litre of residual sugar, only made in exceptional years, from part botrytised Chardonnay grapes, adding honey and truffle to the flavour profile. Cuvée Botrytis is a stunning rich sweet wine, coming from principally fully botrytised grapes. The conditions necessary to make this wine is are exceptionally rare, the last vintage being 2006. What the critics are saying: "..one of Burgundy’s greatest winemakers… served blind, tasters tend to think they are Grand Cru white Burgundies from Puligny- or Chassagne-Montrachet." Robert Parker  "The quality of what is produced here is mind-boggling." Allen Meadows, Burghound "Thévenet makes some of my favourite whites in all of Burgundy". William Kelley, Wine Advocate "quickly learned to love the wines… [which] are complex and fascinating, as age-worthy as many white Burgundy wines, perhaps even more so… Prices remain a fraction of what you would have to pay for a top Côte de Beaune, and I cannot recommend these highly enough." Neal Martin, Vinous "These are the wines of a genius." Robert Parker "Wine aficionados like to root for a winemaker who lives and breathes his calling. This is the story of a man who inspires just such support. He is Jean Thévenet... He’s obsessed with quality and makes terrific, highly distinctive white Burgundy…. Thévenet puts to shame many other producers in the Mâconnais." Wine Spectator Read more Editorial 

Domaine de la Bongran Vire Clesse is no ordinary Chardonnay from the Maconnais. It has its own particular style thanks to some rather unique terroir and an uncompromising approach to its winemaking. 

Exploring the Domaine de la Bongran Vire Clesse which has its own particular style thanks to some rather unique terroir

Vire Clesse by Domaine de la Bongran

Behind the bottle: Vire Clesse by Domaine de la Bongran

America’s native spirit has never been in greater demand. After years in the doldrums with production at record lows of 500,000 barrels per year, Bourbon is experiencing one of the greatest Cinderella stories in the modern spirits industry era. At last count, the number of barrels maturing in the United States had swelled to 10.3 million per year, which is a whopping 436% increase since 1999.   The reasons for the pendulum swinging back in Bourbon’s favour are multiple. The introduction of the first single-barrel Bourbon from the mid-1980s, coupled with the classic cocktail revival in the late ’90s to early ’00s, started to pique interest. Within a few short years, the Old Fashioned cocktail and brands like Blanton’s and Pappy Van Winkle were appearing front and centre in some of the biggest TV shows and films in America. Drinkers and the wider whiskey world were starting to wake up to the fact that Bourbon was a seriously good spirit. Producers couldn’t fill barrels fast enough. There was new dawn for high-priced, collectable American whiskey – and bottlings were soon like gold dust.   “Right now, in Kentucky, if I go to a liquor store, I can’t find our products on the shelves,” Drew Mayville tells me. “They are all gone. People have bought them or they don’t even make it to the shelf.”  Mayville has worked in the alcohol industry for over four decades, for the first 23 years at Seagram’s (before “it was put up for sale and my bubble burst”) and for the past 18 years at Sazerac, which produces some of the most coveted Bourbons on the market (think Pappy’s, Blanton’s, E H Taylor and Eagle Rare) at its Buffalo Trace distillery in Kentucky.   “People think [the Bourbon boom] happened overnight but it didn’t,” the Master Blender and Director of Quality says.   “I would say about 10 or 15 years ago it started to make its cycle back to favour,” he adds. “Even Pappy Van Winkle, which is one of the most sought-after Bourbons that we make, didn’t happen overnight.”   Mayville has witnessed the cyclical nature of drinking trends throughout his career and seen the various booms and busts in the United States as tastes moved from dark spirits to white spirits and back again. He believes one of the reasons Bourbon is so popular right now is largely down to its approachability.   “American whiskey tends to be very palatable,” Mayville explains in his Canadian drawl. “Scotch is more of a learned taste; lots of people drink Scotch around the world because they are so used to it.  “Part of the reason that Bourbon is very palatable is the corn. It provides a lot of that sweet fruitiness,” Mayville adds.   In order to be called Bourbon, the spirit needs to be made from at least 51% corn. The second grain in 95% of Bourbon produced is rye, which gives it a spiciness. The other 5% of Bourbon has wheat in place of rye – these wheated Bourbons are softer, as the fruit notes from the corn are accentuated by the addition of wheat. (Straight rye whiskey is also made from corn and rye, but with the rye dominating, meaning it can’t be classed as Bourbon.)   Contrary to popular belief, Bourbon can be made anywhere in the United States but 95% of Bourbon is produced in Kentucky. Bourbon must be distilled no higher than 160 proof (80% alcohol) and matured in newly charred oak barrels.   Despite its current popularity, Bourbon does have a long distilling tradition; it was first produced in Kentucky in the 1780s when distillers discovered charring barrels mellowed corn whiskey. After a strong start, Bourbon struggled during the two World Wars and was heavily affected by the temperance movement and Prohibition in the United States. Sales recovered by the middle of the century and American whiskey entered something of a golden age in the 1950s.  Unfortunately, this prosperous period was short-lived when drinkers once again turned their backs on brown spirits in favour of white spirits in the 1960s and early ’70s, kickstarting the vodka revolution that has only recently started to wane. This about-turn resulted in the first American whiskey surplus – known as a lake in world whiskey and loch in Scotland. Producers were left with gallons upon gallons of surplus whiskey and inevitable closures followed.   “We kinda skipped a generation and now we’re going back that way,” Mayville says stoically.  Now, with sales more buoyant than ever, there is a rush to ramp up production – fast. Sazerac is in the process of spending an eye-watering $1.2 billion on the Buffalo Trace distillery in Frankfort, Kentucky. A new column still, cookers and boilers are all being installed to double capacity. New, 60,000-barrel warehouses – the largest in Kentucky – are also being built every four or five months, at a cost of circa $30 million. This is scale on an unprecedented level.   Buffalo Trace is not alone in this endeavour. Producers of Old Forester and Woodford Reserve Brown-Forman are increasing their distillery space, and the makers of Four Roses have spent more than $50 million on expansion. Global spirits behemoth Diageo has also invested a reported $115 million on a new distillery and four warehouses with a total capacity of 330,000 barrels for its Bulleit Bourbon and other, as yet unannounced American whiskey brands.  “We’ve been making more and more every single year but it’s just never enough,” Mayville tells me.   “It’s a lot of money and it’s a big risk because if people don’t buy the product in 10 years from now, you’re going to have a lake of whiskey,” Mayville adds with knowing caution.   It’s hard to imagine the current Bourbon boom going bust when producers are showing such confidence in the category and bottlings such as Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve can sell on the secondary market for upwards $20,000, but there are no guarantees.   For Mayville, this change in fortunes is a real boon but his real focus is on the quality of the liquid and innovation at the stills – the sales figures are somebody else’s concern.    “The part that really excites someone who has been around as long as I have is doing new things and innovation,” he says with glee. Much to this industry veteran’s delight, this creativity is championed at the very top of his organisation.   “We can go away, do experimentations, spend money, and not even tell anyone – and it’s actually encouraged,” he says, still clearly unable to believe his good fortune.  Mayville says the American drinks market is great at keeping him honest, always expecting something that wows and excites them.  “We’re always, always trying to innovate, embrace that change, and try and make better products,” he adds.“ We run so many different experiments, trying to make better whiskeys. It’s hard to list them because there are so many. There are thousands of barrels ageing right now that are experiments.”   One of his most recent experiments was the Colonel EH Taylor 4 Grain, which was named one of the best whiskeys in the world in 2017 by Jim Murray in his Whisky Bible.    “You can’t predict exactly what’s going to happen,” the Master Blender says humbly. “We’re doing so many experiments – another one could well be one of the best whiskeys in the world.”   With creative genius like Mayville at the helm of some of these distilleries, continually striving for quality, it’s hard to see the Bourbon gold rush ending any time soon. One thing that is for sure, though, is whiskey lovers and collectors will continue to scramble for what little Bourbon there is on the market until distillers can mine their liquid gold. Browse all American whiskey or read more Editorial 

After some very challenging years, American whiskey producers feel like they’ve struck gold. Demand for Bourbon is at an all-time high and distillers can’t pump out enough liquid to meet a seemingly unquenchable thirst. Holly Motion investigates the Bourbon boom 

Exploring the reasons for the current Bourbon boom in the United States with Buffalo Trace’s Drew Mayville, who produces Pappy Van Winkle, Blanton’s and more

Exploring the Bourbon whiskey boom

Gold rush: the Bourbon boom

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

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

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

Kistler & Occidental – site expression in Sonoma

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

If you journey to the northernmost prefecture of Japan you will find Hokkaidō. Venture deeper into the Japanese island’s stunning national parks and forests and you’ll find its native quercus crispula – the mystical mizunara. Measuring up to 30 metres in height, with long, curved branches and broad leaves, the Japanese oak tree is undeniably majestic. In recent years, this humble tree, favoured by luxury furniture makers, has become an incredibly highly sought-after commodity in the whisky world for the slightly unusual characteristics of sandalwood, coconut and incense it imparts. It is so desirable, in fact, that a single barrel can easily cost 10 times the amount you’d pay for a standard Sherry cask. If you can get your hands on one at all, that is. Mizunara hasn’t always been as desirable as it is today. In fact, track back 10 to 15 years and very few people had heard of it, let alone deigned to put their beautifully crafted whisky in it. Its popularity neatly coincides with the sudden rise of Japanese whisky and Suntory’s decision to release a whisky that had been aged, albeit fleetingly, in this Japanese oak. What many didn’t realise at the time, and arguably still don’t to this day, is how problematic the mystical mizunara is to cooper, source and use as a maturation vessel. It takes approximately 200 years before a mizunara tree reaches the desired diameter for a cask (70-80cm). It doesn’t grow in a straight line, which makes creating staves a bit of a logistical headache for coopers. It has an extremely high moisture content (mizunara literally translates as water oak), and contains more knots than other woods, which is an issue when trying to make a cask watertight. It is also porous and prone to leakage. It's fair to say that it’s not a natural choice, and historically it wasn’t used in this way. Japanese distillers traditionally used European or American oak to mature their whisky because they were heavily influenced by Scotch traditions. But a shortage of casks during and after World War II forced them to look closer to home, to their native oak tree. Fast forward to today and the number of mizunara-finished whiskies is at an all-time high. As a consequence, mizunara barrels have only become more difficult (and expensive) to source. Andrew Rankin has worked in the whisky industry for 47 years – what he doesn’t know about casks isn’t worth knowing and his connections are enviable. None more so than his relationship with one of the oldest independent cooperages in Japan, from whom he sources a steady supply of mizunara for his new Scottish Highlands distillery Ardross. He describes the Japanese oak as a “fairly recent phenomenon” that was kickstarted by Suntory – a company he knows exceptionally well from his 20-plus years at Morrison Bowmore – where they filled an “absolutely tiny percentage” of Yamazaki into mizunara a decade ago. In the years that have followed, Rankin has been watching the mizunara market closely and is sceptical as to whether there is enough supply to meet demand. “It took me years to persuade Suntory to give us some mizunara casks,” he says. “At that time, I think it was 2010, we got three used mizunara casks and we got three new mizunara casks – and that was it. And it was a one-off. We weren’t getting a regular supply of it.” Even with his connections, Rankin says he doesn’t get a committed volume of mizunara each year because it is dependent on the level of deforestation and the quality of the wood. “We were due to get 20 [barrels] in at the beginning of this year,” he says, “but we still haven’t got them because of selection problems with the wood and shipping problems.” He’s hopeful they’ll arrive before the year is out, but there’s no guarantee. From the people I have spoken to, this lengthy wait is par for the course. East Asia Whisky Company’s Christian Leusder says it takes “approximately three years before you receive a good-quality mizunara barrel”. When you’ve parted with a staggering £8,000 per cask – five times the cost of a standard European or American oak barrel – it can be galling when other producers punt for a mediocre cask, which is only partly made from mizunara or is made from multiple trees, and sell their whisky for a similar price. These, arguably, poorer imitations can be with the buyer within a month or two because they take far less time to cooper and ship. Leusder believes the “massive” difference in cask pricing and considerable delay is worth it to produce something that isn’t just “bandwagon [and] off-the-rack”. Another bone of contention regarding mizunara is the length of time the whisky has spent in barrel, and whether the cask is fully or only partly made from the Japanese oak. Suntory UK Brand Ambassador James Bowker says the Japanese whisky behemoth is “lucky” to have a “relatively consistent, quality supply chain” that has been established over many years. These relationships enable them to fully age whiskies in single casks rather than cask transferring or finishing. “You’ll see this practice across our portfolio where we use mizunara,” he says. “It gives a more rounded, complex, tertiary profile rather than a simple hit of the primary cask notes.” However, Bowker is quick to acknowledge this expensive process which requires a “significant” time investment is not always possible – financially or otherwise – for some producers. Rankin says he really doesn’t know where all these producers are sourcing mizunara casks from because they are, naturally, far more scarce today than they were a decade ago. He is also sceptical about how long some of these whiskies have spent in mizunara and believes it takes at least five years to get any influence from the wood. “At the moment, you could put your whisky in a mizunara cask, roll it about on the floor, and say it is mizunara-cask-finished,” the Master Blender says. “And you probably know, and I probably know, that it is going on.” The people who don’t know, Rankin says, are the end consumers because producers are not currently required to be transparent about this on the label. East Asia Whisky Company’s Leusder picks up the point. “If you look at what Chivas Regal are doing, they are producing a lot of mizunara single malt whiskies which are just finishes and they don’t actually have an age statement so you don’t know how long they’ve been in there,” he says. “And I personally can’t really taste the mizunara out of it.” He continues: “Finishes can be gimmicky. They can go wrong. And they do not always yield the best product.” This is one of the reasons East Asia Whisky Company dips their toe in the mizunara pool but has no intention of fully submerging its feet. Its current Macallan mizunara series stops after the third release. A mizunara-finished Springbank and Bowmore release will follow, and then Leusder says the team might try and get their hands on a younger vintage and decide to age it in mizunara until the 40-to 50-year mark, when it will no longer be a finish. Dr Bill Lumsden, the genius behind Glenmorangie and Ardbeg for the past 26 years, has pioneered experimentation on every aspect of whisky production. It is telling that he has never released a product with mizunara oak in it. He says it is the taste profile, rather than sourcing and porosity, that puts him off the Japanese oak. “If I was to take Glenmorangie new-make spirit – and I’m neither confirming nor denying that I have done this – and mature it in a new heavily-toasted mizunara oak cask for 12 years, at the end of the day, I would have something that would probably taste a little bit bizarre,” he says. Lumsden says he always recalls doing a tasting in conjunction with The Glenlivet Master Distiller Alan Winchester and Suntory Chief Blender Shinji Fukuyo in London when Fukuyo presented a fully mizunara-matured whisky. Lumsden struggles to remember if it was Yamazaki but remembers the taste profile with crystal-clear clarity. He describes it in just two words: “bewilderingly strange”. Coming from a man who invented the Russian-oak matured Ardbeg Kelpie, which he says has elements of “the smell of burning rubber when a car has screeched away”, this is quite the review. Casting an eye to the future, there is little doubt producers will continue to release mizunara-finished whiskies – certainly in the short to mid term. Leusder says he thinks it will always be popular simply because it’s so rare, but predicts there will be a larger and widening gap between high and low quality. “There will be less and less of the high and more and more of the low,” he says, “and the market will be more and more confused as to which is which.” When pushed, Suntory’s Bowker says he absolutely thinks the trend will continue and other categories will start using mizunara. But, he adds with trepidation, that he hopes producers will “respect this special wood and ensure that consumers get to experience it at its best rather than being tempted by more affordable shortcuts as you so often see in this industry”. For the time being, at least, it seems like the mystical mizunara is going to continue to enchant producers and drinkers alike. And, unless things drastically change, the onus will be on the whisky drinker to watch out for the sorcery and find the magical liquid that undoubtedly exists. Browse all spirits or read more Editorial 

Mizunara has everybody spellbound. The Japanese oak – once relatively unknown and troublesome – is now desperately sought-after. Holly Motion speaks to some of the biggest names in the cask industry about what they really think of the mystical wood

Exploring why the Japanese oak mizunara – once relatively unknown and troublesome – is now desperately sought-after in the whisky world

Investigating the rare Japanese oak, mizunara

The mystical mizunara

 When the UK entered the first coronavirus lockdown in March 2020, there was a sense that the end of long, thoughtful, funny and serious conversations was dangerously close. Over a Zoom call, sat at our respective kitchen tables, F+R’s Patrick O’Connor, creative director Alan Aboud and myself, a journalist and editor, started to wonder if we could work together in some way to explore topics usually explored at the communal tables that were sadly empty.  The first project we worked on together marked the 90th birthday of iconic Lebanese winemaker Chateau Musar and the simultaneous publishing of a book celebrating the winery by Académie du Vin Library. Working together with music consultant Leo Walton, we conceived a package of content for FINE+RARE’s website to coincide with F+R’s exclusive release of various mixed cases of Chateau Musar vintages going back to the 1960s.  As part of the content package, I wrote three articles for the F+R website, and worked with Leo to create four Spotify playlists featuring Lebanese music from the relevant decades of the Musar vintages being released: the 1960s, 1970s, 2000s and 2010s. Leo and I also suggested the potential to add more cultural context to both the wine and our selection of music by producing a podcast in which we interviewed a Lebanese musician about musical culture and heritage in the region. We explored various ideas before interviewing two members of the Beirut Groove Collective – a group of DJs with a reputation for unearthing records from the 1960s, 70s and 80s and giving them a new audience. We asked the DJs to give us the low down on their legendary all-night vinyl-only parties in Lebanon’s capital, and about Beirut’s surprisingly vibrant music scene throughout the Civil War (1975-1990). We also asked Ernesto about his new reissue project with BBE Records and the first release in the series: Ihsan Al-Munzer’s 1979 synth-led Belly Dance Disco album.  This idea – of creating original editorial content that proactively ventured into topics in and adjacent to the worlds of fine wine and spirits in order to enrich the FINE+RARE experience – immediately appealed to all involved. Between us, we started to flesh out the idea for a new content platform that could explore and commission stories that took advantage of our combined knowledge, skillsets and networks, plus FINE+RARE’s access to the best producers and most interesting personalities driving quality in the worlds of fine wine and exceptional spirits.  While the concept was always for FONDATA to be a multi-media platform whereby we would produce content in whatever medium seemed most relevant to a given subject matter – podcast, video, blog or print – we focused our initial efforts on producing a large-format, print journal. It would provide a brilliant canvas for us to commission the best writers, photographers and illustrators, and it would also be the perfect format to function as a physical mission statement, something we could send to F+R customers. Doing this in 2020, when we were in lockdown, seemed like a great way to maintain connection and morale in an unprecedented moment in living memory. We formed a small ‘bubble’ to sit, appropriately distanced, in Patrick’s back garden in Hackney to brainstorm the idea and start mapping out what stories we could potentially commission for our first FONDATA journal. For the inaugural issue, one story in particular was pivotal to realising our ambition: commissioning American essayist, author and regular contributor to The New Yorker, Adam Gopnik to write a piece for us. In his book, Paris to the Moon (Quercus, 2000), Gopnik likens Jean-Philippe Derenne’s L’Amateur de Cuisine book (Éditions Stock, 1996) to “a medieval almanac, offering a timeless, secure, benevolent universe of food.” In our initial conversations, we’d identified Wine Grapes, A complete guide to 1,368 vine varieties, including their origins and flavours (Allen Lane, 2012) – the weighty 1,240-page tome authored by Jancis Robinson MW, Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz – as a book we’d love to celebrate in some way. We wondered if Gopnik would be as enamoured with the book as much as Derenne’s and if he’d write something for us about it and its value to wine lovers and gastronomes alike. We duly sent him a copy of Wine Grapes (clothbound and slipcased) and a note introducing ourselves and outlining FONDATA’s ambition. He loved the book and the idea for the piece, so we contacted Jancis to ask if she would be happy to be interviewed by Adam. It turned out they were both fans of each other’s work. Our first feature was underway. But how would we present the piece? What would FONDATA look like? Alan asked Jancis if she would agree to be our cover star for our first issue. When she agreed, we had to work out how to bring the inaugural cover to life. “Gavin Bond popped into my head,” Alan, recalls, of the task at hand, “as he has become the ‘go-to’ photographer for celebrity portraits, especially in the film and fashion business. I felt Jancis deserved that status and reverence. Of course, the wine world reveres her, but no wine journal seems to be able to look beyond a shoot involving wine bottles and grapes.”   With Gavin Bond on board, the next step was to think about the shoot itself. “We enlisted the help of a wonderful floral design company, Studio Lupine,” Alan explains of his art direction. “We briefed Raggie Furuseth, the designer, to create a wildly original space in which Jancis could be photographed. The resulting portrait is a stunning and sensitive study of one of the world’s most learned and charming wine writers in her prime.” Another crucial part of our first issue planning was around design concepting and setting out our production values. As a kind of guiding light, Alan and I had adopted a mantra: “This isn’t a magazine”, as FONDATA would have none of the concerns of a regular magazine. We didn’t want to print on flimsy paper. We didn’t want to create something predictable or ephemeral, but rather an object that felt it had more permanence, more lasting value. FONDATA, we were all very clear, would strive from the outset to be a joyous, opulent celebration of cerebral, long-form editorial content.  Alan began working with his studio designer, Haley Austin, exploring different oversized formats, experimenting with page layouts and type treatments to realise his vision for how FONDATA would look. At the same time, he commissioned Rick Banks of Foundry 37 to create a bespoke logotype for FONDATA’s masthead based on his F37 Caslon typeface. We also adopted F37 as our core typeface for body copy, and to use at large scale for feature headlines and beautiful, full-page pull quotes.  In terms of our editorial direction, we were keen from the offset to commission editorial that explored evergreen (and ever-fascinating) topics. What does it mean to collect? How has the pandemic affected our lifestyles, and how much of that is positive? How do ideas germinate, and how does genius emerge? How important is history and tradition to innovation and revolution? What are the most significant drivers and the biggest hurdles for excellence? Once the Gopnik feature was in the proverbial bag, we set to work commissioning an issue full of features that we hoped would appeal to a wine-loving audience but not feel like we were trying to sell them something.  We approached Jancis Robinson’s co-authors of Wine Grapes, Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz, to call out five relatively obscure grape varieties from around the world to champion them and the producers making remarkable wines with them. We also commissioned botanical artist Sarah Jane Humphrey to illustrate each variety.  We asked the former director of London’s Design Museum, Deyan Sudjic OBE, to contemplate the history of social spaces. To accompany his feature, we asked him to approach a number of highly regarded architects and interior designers to illustrate their visions of social spaces of the near future. As a result, we soon added John Pawson, AB Rogers, Paloma Strelitz, and Jon Marshall to our list of contributors. We tasked journalist and author Dylan Jones OBE with critiquing wine’s critical landscape, connecting him with some of the world’s leading wine writers and critics to discover how the pandemic had reshaped their work lives and lifestyles.  Author and historian (and one of the most elegantly dressed gentlemen about town) Nicholas Foulkes very literally wrote the book on cigars. His son, Max, is a Master of Havana and works at Davidoff in Mayfair. And it was Nicholas’ father-in-law who first introduced him to the pleasures of cigar smoking. Especially for our first issue, Nicholas pondered the joy of his relationship with his sons and the idea of passing cultural knowledge and enthusiasms from one generation to the next. We commissioned Julian Broad to shoot a portrait of Nicholas with his sons.  I spent time talking with restaurateur-turned winegrower Alex Xu and wrote a piece about how he’d come to completely reshape his future by planting three hectares of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay vines in the foothills of the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain in China’s most idyllic province. I also interviewed Waterford distillery owner Mark Reynier to find out how (and why) he’s bringing notions of terroir, traceability and transparency to the fore in the world of single malt whisky.   Meanwhile, British chef and food writer Thom Eagle contemplated the value of spending more, rather than less, time in the kitchen, and artist Stewart Walton illustrated the piece.  We commissioned educator and business guru Germana Di Falco to interview fashion designer Brunello Cucinelli about his philosophy to business and life itself, and we engaged British-born, LA-based writer and critic Geoff Dyer to chart the slow journey towards appreciation of and reverence for well-chosen wine. The issue signs off with a Letter from California penned by winemaker Maya Dalla Valle, who reflects on her 11-year journey to become the winemaker at her family’s celebrated vineyard in Napa. The resulting inaugural issue is everything we hoped it would be. As Patrick says in his publisher’s letter on its very first page, it is a celebration. One that delivers rich, engaging editorial content in a format that feels lavish and collectable in and of itself. “It is also a collective,” he continues. “The best minds brought together to tackle the subjects that captivate, so arresting in their absence – experience, space, people and family. [This issue] became a journey into the sound of the things that matter to the soul of the collector, the reasons things exist, the FONDATA.”

FONDATA Editor Gavin Lucas on the content platform’s journey from ideation to realisation

Exploring how the FINE+RARE Group created FONDATA, a unique wine and spirits content platform

The FONDATA genesis story

FONDATA: The genesis story

It is hard to write the history of the future, but I hope that I am on safe ground when I say that the global pandemic of 2020 will be the defining event of the early 21st century. I say ‘hope’ because God help the human race if there is anything more defining waiting around the corner. By saying as much, I do not in any way diminish the other spectres that have haunted the dawning decades of the third millennium: among them mankind’s age-old companions, intolerance, religious fundamentalism and greed. Nevertheless, the pandemic has humbled humanity in a new and special way, combining our oldest foe, disease, with swift, easy, international travel – until recently one of the most central aspects of our technical and cultural advancement. Death and destruction, like everything else in life, are neither evenly nor democratically apportioned. Nevertheless, there can be few, if any, people on the planet whose lives have been untouched. Maybe there is a tribe of rainforest-dwelling Pygmies, cut off from what we hubristically call civilisation and which continues to exist in a state of prelapsarian Stone-Age ignorance. But the rest of us have been simultaneously confronted by our mortality, the fragility of our lives and, in many cases, the vacuity of our dreams. We reacted in different ways, retreating into what we found comforting. Some (yes, you, David Geffen) used social media to let the world know that they were safe on their yachts. Others explored the restorative powers of one of the most fundamental and symbolically domestic of rituals: baking bread. My own reaction was somewhere between these two poles. Within just a few days of the pandemic being declared in the UK, I had taken to the virtual airwaves with films – exquisitely directed by my younger son – of me smoking cigars with my elder son and dilating on the joys of the fragrant blue smoke of Havana cigars. Trivial perhaps, superfluous almost definitely, but to me immensely significant. It is hard to express the emotional impact of this activity without resorting to cliché, but then clichés tend to be clichés because there is an element of truth in them. And while the term ‘intergenerational male bonding’ is an arid form of words that traduces the emotional value of the experience, it also begins to explain its worth. But more than just finding a new way of communicating with my children, I like to feel that I am passing on something from which they can derive satisfaction; I was first inculcated into the world of the cigar by my stepfather-in-law – who splendidly encapsulated the appeal as being “the feeling of well-being” derived from learning how to wield this refined instrument of pleasure. Pleasure and well-being are the inspirations of these broadcasts (as I rather self-consciously, antediluvially, call them), and to my surprise they established a moderate but relatively enthusiastic following. Given that I am old enough to have children in their 20s, I am also old enough to regard the idea of using a telephone to make a home movie that has no actual physical presence, and that can be viewed via another intangible medium, as being pretty close to witchcraft. I find it remarkable that as many as 15,000 people – most of whom I have never met, living I know not where – tuned in to watch two men in slightly extravagant clothes (we wore safari suits, cowboy outfits, boating blazers, dinner jackets, business suits and tweeds) set fire to tubes of tobacco and try and convey a sense of the flavours they were tasting. But more than a degustatory sensation to be relayed, it was, in its way, an act of cultural transmission that in its essence is not very different to the role of say, indigent troubadours that wandered the courts of 12th and 13th century Provence, or the griots of the Mali empire of the 14th century, telling stories of noble exploits of the past. As we sat amongst its fragrant swirling wisps and gossamer tendrils; the sacred smoke of the cigar would unlock the past and liberate fragments of memory from wherever it is that memories are imprisoned and presumed forgotten. As we shared the flavour and the experience, recollections of my visits to Havana over the last quarter-century would be summoned unbidden – oxymoronic though that may sound. I remembered names of rollers, long conversations with factory directors and days spent in the fields of the plantations. I recalled meeting an ancient torcedor who had started work as a child and he remembered rolling cigars for Winston Churchill. I was reminded of a long afternoon spent on the terrace of the simple home of the late Alejandro Robaina, the Cuban tobacco farmer, whose time-furrowed face would give the pachydermic features of W.H. Auden stiff competition. He sat in his rocking chair and retrieved his own memories of how the climate had changed over the course of a generation, and of the taste of his first cigar, enjoyed before the age of 10 during the 1920s. However imperfectly, I was able to transmit these memories to my children in a setting and an atmosphere that made those memories theirs too. It is the associative power of the cigar to stimulate memory that raises it beyond the mere intake of nicotine, and instead elevates it to the level of a cultural activity. Proust had his madeleine and I have my cigar. I pick the cigar because it has been a personal comfort during a difficult time, but the same can be said to be true of any skill-laden and ritual-rich activity that is passed from generation to generation. I enjoy traditionally made clothes and I find the idea appealing that many hands contribute to the making of a single garment. It may be better-made than its ready-to-wear counterpart, it is likely to last longer and fit better – but these are only the tangible aspects. At the risk of sounding pretentious, there is what one might call a spiritual element to having clothes made. There is something uniquely appealing about clothes that have been made only for you and it is an appeal to which I succumbed almost 40 years ago. I first got into having clothes made for me long before I could afford it, when, as an undergraduate at Oxford, I fell under the spell of a charming old tailor called Stamp, Mr Stamp to his friends. He was a fabulous old boy with a shop on Broad Street, or The Broad as I believe we were encouraged to call it at the time, just down from Castell where he had started as an apprentice half a century earlier during the 1930s. He made me a pair of trousers, a blazer and few other items including several remarkable waistcoats. One of the best moments came when I took in a 50-year-old, double-breasted waistcoat for him to copy. He looked at it, examined a label sewn into the underside of the backstrap, peered at the stitching around the buttonholes, and then told me that the garment had been made for a well-known Spitfire test pilot, gave me the price of the fabric per yard in 1936 and – most impressive of all – informed me of the name of the man who had stitched the buttonholes.  My first shoemaker Eric Cook also beguiled me when he took a look at a pair of Lobb correspondent shoes, turned them over and was able to identify the man who had finished them because of the slightly elliptical curvature of the heel and the spacing of the nails.  For me, such knowledge is just as impressive as that of the connoisseur who can identify a long-lost masterpiece by examining the brushstrokes and the state of the canvas or wooden panel on which the paint was laid. But, unlike the admiration of an acknowledged masterpiece by a globally renowned artistic genius, the quality of such pleasures is more personal and, arguably, more meaningful. It was Franz Liszt who said, “A good Cuban cigar closes the door to the vulgarities of life,” but the same is true of the contemplation of a well-sewn buttonhole, or the anglage of a well-finished watch movement. Such pleasures may be only fleetingly experienced, but I would argue they are all the more precious for their intimacy: watches and clothes are worn on the body, the cigar is consumed – becoming in some way part of the body and stimulating the mind. These are things that ornament life, that raise the quotidian to the memorable and that transcend the disagreeable nature of too much of life today. I suppose that this is what is meant by ‘luxury’. I had been hoping to get to Paris to catch an exhibition, at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, devoted to the controversial subject of luxury, mounted under the aegis of my friend Pierre-Alexis Dumas, creative director of Hermès, who understands the field better than most. “While the luxury object resists definition by any single concept, drawing instead on shifting, eclectic visions, we might nonetheless agree that it possesses one distinctive characteristic above all others,” he told me. It is, he believes, “an object we keep, respect and cherish, one that archaeological discoveries across the globe reveal as speaking timelessly to us, its human power undimmed, resonant with distant emotions. Today, at a time when luxury seems to hold omnipresent status, in the media and in social networks, it is perhaps pertinent to recall that the luxury object is precisely one that is preserved and passed on – a magnificent, enduring conduit of culture and knowledge, bearing witness to human ingenuity.” The overuse of the word ‘luxury’ has led to its trivialisation, but there is a sense in which the pandemic has helped me transmit to my children something of my view of its true meaning. In a world of ever abbreviated communication, the chance to spend time in contemplation of what I love with those I love has been a gift – and the suspension of the ceaseless restless turmoil that we regard as normality, has shorn many so-called luxury items of their status-conferring function, allowing us to see them for what they are, to winnow the impostor from the authentic. I hope that I have conveyed, however clumsily, what it is that I appreciate, and uncovered something of the culture and values that make them important to me. My sons are fascinating people, their company is genuinely instructive for me, I see things anew through their eyes and this in turn has added further richness to life’s pleasures: not just appreciating the intrinsic qualities of, say a cigar or a suit, but in enhancing that appreciation by seeing it reflected in my children. It is a powerful combination of culture, emotion and enjoyment. Whether a vessel of personal memory, a conduit for the great values of humanity, or a bulwark against the deadening combination of fear and tedium of recent months: the superfluous, to misquote Voltaire ever so slightly, has seldom been so necessary. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Writer and author Nicholas Foulkes considers the notion of transmitting cultural knowledge and enthusiasms from one generation to the next – and how finding joy in the seemingly trivial details of the objects he values has brought him closer to his sons. 

Photography by Julian Broad.

Nicholas Foulkes considers the notion of transmitting cultural knowledge and enthusiasms from one generation to the next.

FONDATA: Foulkes & Sons 

Foulkes & Sons  

In the conversation about terroir in spirits, rum arguably has a stronger position than most. There are numerous cane-to-bottle rums and many more with a credible claim to the dictionary definition of the term typically associated with wine. However, as is often true in the rum world, this isn’t an open and shut case. “Wherever unique spirits are found I think there is an opportunity to discuss the influence of terroir on the liquid,” Mitch Wilson, Black Tot Global Brand Ambassador, says. “How people interpret terroir in wine versus spirits is often different – wine terroir focuses on transmission of flavour from the land and the region into the final product. Spirits can be a much broader interpretation of terroir – here we often look at local ‘method’ and ’savoir-faire’ or know-how – how the local traditions together with production choices of the distiller and blender help to create a sense of identity in the final spirit.” Foursquare Master Distiller Richard Seale picks up the point: “Terroir is an interesting question in rum and you will get a different answer in different rum producing countries.” At the Barbados distillery, Seale ferments with added cultured yeasts in one section and pure cane juice natural fermentations in another. When it comes to the latter, Seale says “terroir in the traditional sense of the word is everything”. “The rum depends on the year of harvest, the time of harvest and the field from where it is harvested. It is 100% natural input. [There’s] not even a cultured yeast to give us some consistency or predictability,” he adds. Daniele Bondi, Export Manager at Hampden Estate's global distributor La Maison & Velier, is a staunch believer that terroir exists in rum and is perplexed by any arguments to the contrary. “I never understand when people think that spirits don’t preserve the characteristics of the fermented wash,” Bondi says. “Obviously, the terroir is respected and expressed only if the whole process of production is carefully preserved.” Wilson says sugarcane juice-based rums are undoubtedly the best examples of terroir in its “classical interpretation”. “Their flavour is almost entirely dependent on the local raw material used, and helps illustrate the vast array of differences between different genus of sugarcanes,” he explains. “Sugarcane juice is not easily transportable – when cane is crushed, the natural yeast on the outside of the cane is immediately brought into contact with the fermentable sugars in the juice, meaning fermentation happens spontaneously within a short period of time. This tends to encourage much more local distillation, often on the same estate where the cane is produced, allowing us to more easily focus on environmental terroir in these specific regions.” He says the fact rhum agricole, as well as their sugarcane-spirit cousins clairin and cachaça, are often found unaged means they are excellent examples of terroir. The purity of the raw material is preserved all the way through to distillation and ultimately glass. The climate of ageing has an enormous impact on terroir, according to Seale. He points to the fact a rum will age very differently in Martinique, which is approximately 140 miles away from his distillery in Barbados. Bondi says this crucial stage can negate terroir entirely. “If a product is aged far from the rest of the production, terroir doesn’t exist anymore.” This is something Dictador has played with in its 2 Masters series. Creative Director Ken Grier says rum, arguably, has a more diverse terroir influence than any other spirit category and this is about the influence of culture rather than soil. “Simplistically, the role of the original colonists has the biggest influence on rum production,” he explains. “The rhum agricole style found in ex-French colonies is derived from the juice of the sugarcane. In former British colonies like Jamaica the predominant style has been pot still, drawn from molasses. Ex-Spanish colonies have been more about column stills and finally Cuba is a tapestry of styles. Of any spirit, rum really reflects the history of the place where it is produced.” Sugarcane honey is used as the spirit base for Dictador. A blend of column and pot still rums are matured in oak casks on the coast by the Caribbean Sea. Grier says these factors all contribute to a particularly elegant, well-aged and complex rum. For the 2 Masters series, Dictador laid down between 10 and 20 casks with prestigious partners from the spirits and wine world. The rum was transported for maturation in the partners’ warehouses to benefit from their terroir, according to Grier. From there, the partners have the creative freedom to choose, in conversation with Dictador Master Blender Hernan Parra, which age and style of rum to use and what to do with it. These partners have included the likes of Glenfarclas, Royal Tokaji and Niepoort. The Royal Tokaji project, for example, took a 1977 rum and matured it in 12-year-old 300-litre Zemplen barrels for seven months in Hungary. These barrels had previously been used to age the producer’s 2016 Tokaji Aszu 6 Puttonyos.
 While there is a general consensus about ageing and sugarcane-juice rums, there is less accord when it comes to the role of molasses in the terroir conversation. “Molasses tends to be a fairly homogenous product,” Seale explains. “When discussing the contrasting styles of molasses rum from Barbados and Jamaica, the terroir element is more about the process and the know-how and less about the agricultural input. Much like a lot of Scotch whisky in that sense,” he explains. The decline of sugar production in many regions has understandably presented a problem when it comes to supply and demand. For this reason, many distilleries have resorted to importing their molasses. The same is true of grain in Scotch whisky production, which is often where the wheels come off in the debate around terroir in whisky. “It might be tempting to consider molasses-based rums as lacking a sense terroir (certainly in the wine sense), but this would be unfair,” Wilson says. “I’d be tempted to bet that given the opportunity to taste a line-up of single origin molasses from around the world that there would be enough variety to contribute to the idea of local terroir.” Ultimately, he says, it’s down to the producer at each stage of the production process to decide to what extent to allow the terroir to influence the final liquid. And, lest we forget: their savoir-faire. Explore all rum or read more Editorial 

The concept of terroir in spirits is a comparatively new one. And, in the case of rum, takes on a very different meaning to wine. Holly Motion explores

Exploring the comparatively new concept of terroir in spirits via the lens of rum – and how it takes on a very different meaning to wine. 

Exploring what terroir means in the rum world

Rum: the raw deal

Genius

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