Andrew Jefford isn’t like other wine writers. Browse his Instagram account and you’ll find not a bottle in sight. Check his Twitter and you’ll find a steady, quiet stream of haiku – or, as he prefers to describe them, “short texts”. These feeds are – like Jefford –gently honest; absent of ego, flash and fanfare. His prose is poised and purposeful, each word carefully considered yet never weighed down by pointed effort. He is a rarity in the world of wine: a writer whose (main) topic happens to be wine.  “I was always a huge reader. It always meant more to me than anything else,” Jefford tells me, thinking back to his childhood. But wine was omnipresent. As the son of a priest, it was a part of family life, consumed “on high days and holidays”.   “I remember first tasting Champagne with my brother, at the age of 10 or 11,” he says. “It was the first tasting note we agreed on: it tasted like vomit. Things got better from then on, happily.” The slight, wiry wine writer smiles, seeming almost sheepish about the wines that he’s since enjoyed.  Aged 16, Jefford decided to start making wine – brewing up grape juice concentrate and whatever else he could find– to supplement supplies at Sunday lunch. The transformative effects of fermentation hooked him – but it was the concept of terroir that reeled him fully in.  He was working at a local hospital, but after his shift – armed with The Penguin Book of Wines and André Simon’s A Wine Primer – he’d venture out to browse the shelves of “French Wine Farmers”, a wine shop in Norwich. He vividly recalls taking home a bottle of Chianti and being struck by the magic of travelling through a glass. “That’s full of wine. And every drop in there came from a vine in Tuscany. I’m drinking Tuscany!” he recalls thinking.“ And I’ve still not got over that. It’s amazing.”  Wine took a back seat when he set off to study English at the University of Reading, before embarking on both a Masters and PhD. The lure of words led him into publishing – a background which, along with his academic approach, defines his writing today. He spent four years “editing mediocre copy into something readable” – but eventually had had enough, and leapt at the chance to write a book on Port.  From there, he wrote articles for Margaret Rand in Wine Magazine, then Decanter, where he’s now a Contributing Editor and his monthly column is the stuff of legend. He was, for a number of years,The Evening Standard’s drinks writer, penned features for The Financial Times and is a regular in The World of Fine Wine. He’s authored several books – including the deservedly totemic The New France. Published in 2002, it looked beyond Burgundy and Bordeaux, shining a light on the nation’s varied wine scene at a moment when it was going through a revolution. If that wasn’t enough, he’s dabbled in radio, presenting for BBC Radio Three and Four.   While wine might be his mainstay, he’s written extensively on whisky and other spirits (including his respected book on Islay, Peat Smoke and Spirit), as well as travel and perfume. But writing, rather than any particular topic, is his real trade. His editorial experience has been key: his prose is intelligent, considered and a masterclass in eloquent economy – something that he finds all too often lacking elsewhere.   Two of Jefford's most famous books: The New France (2002) and Peat Smoke and Spirit (2004) “One of the problems is that a lot of [wine writing] is online, so there aren’t space constraints,” he decries. “[Wine writing] tends to attract quite large egos. They do write three times more than they need to – because they think it’s all wonderful.” It’s perhaps the lack of ego in Jefford’s writing that sets it apart. He seems to approach any topic unbiased and open – still with the wide-eyed joy of that first bottle of Chianti. Wine remains, to him, “dead exciting”.   “It’s a great shame that fairly early on the rest of the journalistic world decided that wine was a ghetto,” Jefford laments. “It embraced wine with gusto initially – probably in the 1990s – then it all got very boring once we passed 2000 and they just asked everybody to offer recommendations and that’s it. Newspapers are no longer a great school for wine writing in the way that they once were.” It is an industry, he feels, sorely in need of imagination. “There’s such a weight of detail to communicate that people never get their head above the waves of the detail.” And that detail, the intricacies of wine – or “its enormous apparatus of geekdom” – are the challenge. He hopes that his latest book, Drinking with the Valkyries – a collection of his work from the last 15 years, “could climb out of the wine ghetto – to anybody who enjoys language, enjoys storytelling, enjoys the interrelation of place and flavour that wine can offer”.  But, by his own admission, wine is “never going to be a mass market popular subject”. While the industry was long obsessed with finding its own “Jamie Oliver” – someone to bring wine to the masses, food is an essential part of life – “whereas wine need be a part of nobody’s life”.   Wine has, undoubtedly, come a long way – “vastly democratised” – but he worries about the “top end of things”, where wine has become so exclusive as to be “almost a plutocracy”. Wine criticism, for him, is intricately linked to the category’s self-imposed segregation, with “its relentless focus on points, excellence and things being better than other things – hierarchy, rather than difference”.  He’s long been vocal about scoring, feeling like Hugh Johnson that – although they may be of practical use to consumers, who undoubtedly want them – they are “philosophically untenable” and “disempowering”.  “You’re being misled to some extent if you think the 96-point wine is always better than the 94-point wine. It’s miles more complicated than that,” says Jefford, who scores wines reluctantly.“ And very often the 89-point wine can be better than either the 96- or 94-point wine.” His advice to wine drinkers is simple: “Trust your palate.”  Despite his impressive resume and effortless intellect, Jefford’s modesty shines through in our conversation – as we dash from the dangers of climate change (“Misery throughout the Third World – but the Bordelais and Bourguignons are raking it in”) to a fascinating co-fermented 15-variety blend from a Lirac estate (Ch. de Montfaucon’s Vin de Mr le Baron). And while the 66-year-old might be softly pensive in the written – and spoken – word, there’s such energy to the man himself.  He’s invariably described as a wine thinker, a philosopher-cum-writer, as well as – of course – a poet; but it’s impossible to pigeon-hole Jefford, his ideas, or his voice.  Andrew Jefford’s book Drinking with the Valkyries, published by Académie du Vin Library, is out now.

Andrew Jefford is one of the world’s greatest wine writers. As his latest book – Drinking with the Valkyries – is released, Sophie Thorpe caught up with the wordsmith to talk about his career so far, the art of writing and why he’s so against scoring 

Andrew Jefford – one of the world’s most famous wine writers – on his career, the art of writing and why he’s so against scoring wine

Sitting down with wine writer Andrew Jefford

Andrew Jefford: wielding words

I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

“I can die happy now,” Jon Bonné chuckles to me. The writer spent almost a decade as the wine guy at The San Francisco Chronicle, and is now Managing Editor at Resy, having spent time at Punch, writing for Noble Rot, Decanter and many more in between. His latest book, The New French Wine, was released earlier this year and The New York Times wine critic Eric Asimov dedicated an entire column to singing its praises – something he almost never does.  The hefty, two-part tome has been a long time in the making – almost a decade, in fact. The idea was a frivolous suggestion, casually agreed to over one too many drinks (“unsulphured Gamay in Oakland – as one does”) with his editor in 2014, soon after the publication of his seminal The New California Wine. But what was conceived as part of his quest for “the next thing”, to build on the momentum of his first book, rapidly spiralled.  “It's very hard to see a bigger picture of French wine because it is so overwhelming,” Bonné tells me over Zoom. Initially he’d envisaged a few trips, a project that would take a couple of years – but it “kept growing and growing and growing”.  “There was this much bigger story that I was sort of stumbling into,” the writer says. He gradually realised that there was an “enormous meta transformation” taking place across France – and this is what the book wrestles with. As he writes in the book’s introduction, “I imagined the new French wine would be about the undiscovered country – the cracks between known places.” But as he soon discovered, the new French wine was everywhere – and it took him nine years to piece it all together.   The work is split into two separate books – The Narrative and The Producers, the former the story behind the reference guide that forms the latter. The Narrative is a deep dive into the face of France and its winegrowing today, broken down by region, with break-out essays on topics such as natural wine, farming and the appellation system. It’s a rich tapestry of stories, interjected with the frank and striking photography of Susannah Ireland and occasional illustrated map by Francesco Bongiorni, reminiscent of Art Deco postcards.  For Bonné, the “new France” is about postmodernism, about “wilful rejections of the b******t of the past”. It’s about a (re)focus on site, about producers seizing their destiny and hunting for a more sustainable approach – in the vineyard, winery and beyond – although it’s far from that simple. “To understand French wine and to love it, you simply have to embrace its messy, self-contradictory, and, yes, complicated postmodern reality,” he writes. He points to Muscadet and Beaujolais as two of the most exciting and representative regions of this movement – both having entirely reinvented themselves within a generation. Producers here, he tells me, are “doing the work and focusing on terroir and technique and farming”, while Champagne “has completely transformed its vision of what its wine should be”.  Change is most importantly, however, “an inclusive force” – and looking at who did (and didn’t) make it into The Producers, Bonné’s definitive gazetteer of the nation’s movers and shakers, shines a light on this. It’s not a list of the vignerons he loves, it’s a pain-staking selection of those he deems significant and meaningful in the context of the movement – encompassing both more traditional names and those on the fringes. Take the Bordeaux chapter; you’ll find Pétrus, Lafleur and Pontet-Canet, as well as many less conventional, smaller and often natural-leaning properties such as Clos 19 Bis or Ch. Julia – with “Benchmarks” and the more up-and-coming “Names to Know” highlighted.  It’s fascinating – and fun – to see these two, seemingly opposing strands of France’s wine scene woven together. When I queried the inclusion of these elder statesmen of French wine, he highlighted how, for him, Pontet-Canet perfectly exemplifies the change in France today, with the forward-thinking Tesseron family handing the keys to previous cellar master Jean-Michel Comme to do “radical, radical s**t”.  Bonné deliberately chooses to champion those who have revved the engine of broader revolution – and those who reflect that revolution’s values. When it comes to Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, for example, he describes how they “upheld the moral pillars of Burgundy and winemaking” and “use their power for good”; whereas one top Pauillac estate he vehemently tells me is “perpetuating the worst practices of the Bordeaux trade”. For him, “wine is a consumable” and, as 21st-century consumers, “people have a right to explore the values of producers”.   While Bonné certainly likes natural wine – and many of the movement’s figureheads feature in the book, he is far from an evangelist. When he first started thinking about the book, natural wine was different; “It hadn’t quite catalysed into this very specific cultural beast,” he says, a cultural beast born in Hackney, Bushwick or Paris’s 11th. He talks about the movement’s “sense of tragic fashion” and how, with its clique-y nature, it has “baked in its own expiration date”. There were, he tells me, producers that didn’t make the cut – those who act as a “cautionary tale” for natural wine. “There are wines that can be delicate to being transported. And then there are wines that are just f***ed up at the source,” he says frankly.   His outlook is broadly positive for France, the nation’s ongoing revolution and its vignerons, but the book also acts as a call to arms of sorts, for: “The enforcers of the old ways will be forced to adapt, or they will perish,” he writes.  It’s not a perfect book. With a work of this size (over 860 pages and 600,000 words), it is almost inevitably slightly out of date by the time it is printed – especially with the pace of change today. Lafleur’s entry, for example, talks of Acte but not Les Perrières. I’d also have loved to have captions for each of Susannah Ireland’s images, knowing where – and of whom – they were taken. But these are quibbles.   I can’t pretend to be unbiased. Bonné is one of my favourite wine writers. There’s a lightness to his phrasing, with dry humour and a palate that I tend to identify with – although I’d argue he’s become a little more funk-friendly over the years. His writing is intelligent without being arduous. Perhaps it’s because, like Andrew Jefford, he was and is a journalist first. What really fills his writing is a sense of joy, of almost gluttony – it’s still filled with the excitement that so many wine writers seem to lose, as they tire of bottle after bottle of exceptional wine. He’s still easily absorbed by the stories that make each one different. For me, he doesn’t fit neatly into the critic box, even though it’s a term he uses to describe himself repeatedly in our conversation. “The notion of a critic has devolved to a place where you are simply handing out numbers,” he explains, but to him his work is about “criticism at a deeper level”. It’s about “being able to dive into the culture and come away with the insights and interpretation, and explain why certain wines really do matter”.  And it is this that makes The New French Wine stand apart. It isn’t just a wine book; wine is the lens through which Bonné observes a broader cultural shift. Whether you agree with everything he says or not, it’s a joy to read, hold and look at. It’s a book that will prompt conversation, prompt you to uncork bottles, prompt you to consider quite how complicated – and endlessly fascinating – France’s wine scene is. And is there anything more French than that?  The New French Wine: Redefining the World’s Greatest Wine Culture (Ten Speed Press) is out now.  Read more Editorial 

Ten years after The New California Wine was published, Jon Bonné has published a new book – an epic tale of France’s revolution. Sophie Thorpe caught up with the author to talk about his ambitious project to capture The New French Wine

We sit down with Jon Bonne, the wine writer and author of The New French Wine, to find out more about his second book

Writer Jon Bonne on The New French Wine

Facing up to The New French Wine: Jon Bonné

 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

Quiet, even subdued, cautious, the Neal Martin on my screen is quite different to the garrulous character I’d imagined from his writing. On the page (or more often these days, the screen), Martin pokes fun at the wine industry, his articles often opening with satirical fiction that doesn’t hold back.  His reports and tasting notes are littered with music references (think Primal Scream and The Smiths rather than Wagner and Bach), and mentions that are sometimes pointedly popular – his first Bordeaux en primeur report for the Wine Advocate (taking over from Robert Parker) opened with a line from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. On our call, however, each word feels deliberate and considered, confident, but with a definite wariness that doesn’t quite fade.  Aged 50, the Vinous writer’s trajectory to wine stardom is unusual. Born in Essex, Martin grew up in a household that didn’t drink wine, so nor did he. In fact, he had no interest in it and blagged his way into the industry. In 1996, having lived in Japan, he applied for a role sourcing wines for a subsidiary of Japan Airlines: the only hitch that he didn’t know anything about wine at the time.  “I lied my way through the interview. I went to an off-licence the night before. Memorised some of the labels. I just reeled off a couple of names… [they] thought I was into wine and gave me the job,” he tells me, still rather bemused by their decision. Coincidentally Martin returned to the same shop last year, where unbeknown to him, his tale lives on as local offy legend – the famous wine taster that got his start right there in Leigh-on-Sea (with the owners even deeming him worthy of several selfies).  Unashamedly a terrible employee, he spent much of his time in his role for Japan Airlines starting his wine writing career (although it also sounds like there was a fair amount of lunching too). “I was kind of bored one lunchtime, bought a book on computer coding. I found I could make a webpage, and just kind of built the original wine-journal.com when I should have been working,” he says. From the novelty of creating a site, he started writing his own tasting notes. At that time the great wine writers were Michael Broadbent, Steven Spurrier and Hugh Johnson – English gentlemen, in short; charming, wonderful, but – for many – unrelatable, very “high culture”, as Martin puts it. He set out to be “more down-to-earth, funny, irreverent”.   “At the time, there was nobody else really doing that. There was this huge audience that liked to drink Bordeaux – but also liked Radiohead.” It struck a chord – and soon his self-built site was getting over 500,000 hits per month. No wonder therefore that in 2006 Robert Parker – then still at the height of his fame – approached the music-minded Englishman to join the Wine Advocate team.   Of course, Parker was renowned for not just the power of his palate and revolutionary points system, but for his personal tastes. Many argue that his preference for intensely ripe, high-octane, new-oak-aged styles shifted the entire world of wine – pushing producers to craft wines that would earn his favour. “Especially more to the end of his career, he had a certain palate… but people always forget that he reviewed German wines and Alsace and so on. So it becomes a little bit of a cliché,” Martin says of his once mentor.  The world of flavour is undeniably subjective, yet Parker was – by some – damned for just that, daring to express his personal preference. Total impartiality when it comes to the matter of taste seems impossible. After I ask whether or not he feels there’s room for bias in wine writing, Martin is clear: “I think a critic should stand up for what they believe in. Anyone can say the First Growths are great, DRC is great. I’d rather read someone who has a definite view on something, whether they like natural wines, or orange wines. Stand up for what you believe in. Then it’s up to the reader to decide.”  In fact, he goes as far to say, it’s potentially the lack of difference in views that has led to wine criticism becoming “a bit beige” in recent years – because now it’s a career, something upon which people depend for their livelihood. “It’s more of a risk if you say this famous name didn’t produce a great wine,” Martin notes. The danger of losing access to wines that are far beyond most critics’ budgets is a threat to the independence of wine writing, but also a massive obstacle to new voices in the industry. It’s an especial challenge given many of the wines Martin reviews – in particular older vintages – might only be pulled out at private dinners, hosted in producers’ homes. The very nature of wine – limited in production and fleeting in its consumption – leads to a reliance on the hospitality of its makers. Martin argues that for that exact reason the most independent “critics” are arguably those he describes as the “grands amateurs” – those who can afford to buy the world’s finest wines, and therefore say what they want.   Martin, however, feels there’s a line to be found where he can maintain distance yet be friendly – and, importantly, speak freely. He highlights Laurent Ponsot’s 2015s – which he gave relatively scathing scores – but, having known Laurent for many years, Martin was happy to tell the vigneron outright that he thought they were picked too late.  As for Martin, he had a lucky start with access to unbelievable wines in what he deems a “golden era” for fine wine in the 1990s, when top Burgundy and First Growths remained affordable for the many – and were poured freely by the trade. “I’ve never taken that for granted. Some of the wines I drink… they’re what my friends earn in three or four months. I never drink a wine and I’m blasé about it. But I’ve been around long enough to say what I think.”   Preserving his voice has always been of key importance to Martin – not willing to compromise on keeping his distinctively tongue-in-cheek tone, but also offer something more than just a tasting note. “When I joined Parker, it was an easy decision – he was a kind of god. But at the same time I wanted to make sure I could still write in the way I wrote,” he tells me. “Anyone can taste the wines and add a number, but for me it’s more interesting to create something that’s interesting, gives you insight… that’s the challenge: to write something people don’t expect,” Martin says. Does he feel he’s achieving that? His answer: “When my primeur report comes out, read the first three paragraphs and let me know.” [We spoke at the end of April, just before the report was published.]  For Martin, his love of music is integral to his work. Indeed, it seems that way – the record player and stacks of vinyl visible behind him on our Zoom call, his Instagram feed almost equally split between sleeve covers and labels – and he feels that it makes him a better writer. He looks back to Hugh Johnson (an avid gardener) or Michael Broadbent (pianist and art enthusiast) for precedent. “Wine can be a boring subject – but it’s when you put it with other things that it becomes more interesting,” he says.  Case in point is his recent article on Grand Mayne, he tells me: “It’s more about time, and parenthood, and… kind of sad in a way. To me, that’s the kind of counterbalance to the dryness about wine. It smells of strawberries and it’s 92 points. There’s the other side to the story – that’s the harder part to write, but for me it’s more satisfying.”  Indeed, he even self-published his book Pomerol (in 2012) to avoid the unwelcome interference of editors. In 2017, Martin made the leap to Vinous – joining fellow Wine Advocate alumnus Antonio Galloni’s new venture, and while he’s kept his voice, he’s also had to learn how to be edited “which was… quite a challenge for me at first,” he admits. “But actually now it’s something I really needed. I think they make better articles, it makes me think a bit more about writing.”  There have been a lot of bottles over the years (Vinous alone holds over 21,000 of his tasting notes), but it was a bottle of 1982 Montrose that started everything. “It wasn’t the best wine I’ve ever had by a long way… It’s a disappointing 1982,” he says. “Enjoy with modest expectations” reads his note from 2017 (88 points – upgraded to 91 points at his most recent tasting in 2018). Disappointing it may be, but it’s the bottle that made him sit up and take wine seriously, realising why people obsessed over it – although he’s clear that, for him, wine isn’t everything.  “Wine is my job – if it didn’t pay I couldn’t do it. I love wine, but I don’t think I’m obsessed with it. I don’t drink wine every day, and it doesn’t bother me if I don’t. If you think wine is everything, you’re missing something,” he says, frankly. I wonder how much this perspective has been shaped by Martin’s quadruple bypass surgery two years ago – a skirmish with the other side that has forced a visibly drastic lifestyle change, and about which he has been vocal.  In Martin’s own words, it’s a “bizarre set of circumstances” that set him on his wine-lined path, yet here he is, his pen and palate working in combination to make him one of the world’s most influential wine writers. While the golden era that allowed him to enter the industry might be over, he feels that – despite now being “very, very expensive” – in some ways wine is more accessible than ever.  “I meet so many more people from so many walks of life. I love it when you sit around the table and everyone’s from different countries. But as soon as you put a wine in front of them – everyone’s on the same level.” While one can’t argue that Martin champions the “everyman” reviewing the world’s finest wines, it’s remarkable in many ways that he hasn’t erred from his original purpose. Though the Essex-born critic doesn’t seem comfortable under the spotlight, on the page he’s at ease – free to fight against the pomposity of wine, with an irreverence and knowing self-ridicule that has put him front and centre in the industry – whether he likes it or not.  Read more Editorial 

Neal Martin – now of Vinous, previously the Wine Advocate – is one of the world’s leading wine writers. Sophie Thorpe talks to the determinedly off-beat critic about his path into wine and why there’s much more to life than brilliant bottles

Neal Martin – now of Vinous, previously the Wine Advocate – on his path into wine and why there’s much more to life than brilliant bottles

Neal Martin, striking a chord

Neal Martin: striking a chord

It’s easy to make assumptions about William Kelley. In some ways, he seems like a caricature of the stereotypical wine writer: an excruciatingly RP English drawl, a doctorate in 19th century history from Oxford, a childhood divided between London’s Belsize Park and more rural Suffolk, and a cellar of seemingly endless depths (or so his Instagram suggests). And yet, there’s much more to the Wine Advocate’s Editor-in-Chief than meets the eye. Kelley sprung from anonymity rapidly. His mentor was Hugo Dunn-Meynell, a family friend who had been a protégé of André Simon and managed the Wine & Food Society for 15 years; organising Dunn-Meynell’s cellar formed Kelley’s early vinous education. He joined Oxford’s famous Wine Circle, acting as President for three years during his studies, which concluded with a PhD. “Education in the humanities is the only form of institutionalised punishment where you get extra time for good behaviour,” Kelley says with a chuckle. Academia wasn’t for him, but, as he tells me, with a casual shrug: “I kept getting scholarships and things, so I kept on doing it.” Wine, meanwhile, played an ever-growing role in his life – from pillaging his college’s cellars, helping the staff decant old vintage Ports, increasing involvement in the Wine Circle, and trips to visit producers. Kelley penned his first feature for Noble Rot in 2015, a spotlight on the late, elusive Henri Bonneau. He was published in Decanter the following year, where he soon secured the North American beat. He covered Burgundy’s 2015 and 2016 vintages for the magazine, before joining the Wine Advocate team in 2017 – just two years after he’d first started writing about wine. In March of this year (2024), he took over as Editor-in-Chief – arguably the biggest job in wine writing. That’s quite the trajectory for someone who fell into the job. “I always wanted to make wine,” Kelley says. “Writing about it sounded like a good idea to make some money, you know? I found the meaning afterwards.” And that meaning is what makes Kelley so interesting, both as a writer and an editor – one that is quietly leading a revolution at the Wine Advocate. I always wanted to make wine,” Kelley says. “Writing about it sounded like a good idea to make some money, you know?  “What we do can be amazingly useful in disrupting hierarchies and forcing critical reflection,” Kelley tells me. “I don’t think we do enough of those things currently – but this is something we’re going to do more of.” In his mind, the Wine Advocate’s purpose is “to keep everybody honest”. The publication was purchased by the Michelin Guide in 2019 (having held 40% since 2017), and Kelley’s been talking to the Michelin team – about how they choose which restaurants get reviewed, and the criteria on which they’re judged, looking for possible synergies. The difference between two and three stars, for example, is more subjective than whether or not an establishment makes it into the guide – and it’s similar with wine. Although there will always be an element of subjectivity, especially when it comes to the two- or three-star equivalents, Kelley is trying to bring more consistency to the way wines are scored. He’s brought in technical training for the entire reviewing team – looking at perceptive thresholds for faults such as brettanomyces and mouse, while also ensuring that they’re all using the same lexicon – that one person’s cinnamon isn’t another’s clove. He cites the world of perfume, where training is intensively scientific and perfumers have to pinpoint hundreds, if not thousands, of specific scents – strikingly different to the world of wine, where tasting is often just “free association”. The team even sends samples off to a laboratory for analysis. This is all part of how Kelley hopes to tackle the inflation, and compression, of scores (“a huge problem” he confesses) – which in turn is devaluing both ratings and the role of those that give them. Kelley is unusual in the critical sphere, for both making wine and reviewing it. He’s received criticism for this duality, although openly declares any interests in reviews (such as for Domaine Felettig, an estate from which he buys fruit). His experience in the vineyard and winery, however, gives him a unique perspective and allows him to engage with producers on a deeper level – something he wants to see more of across the team. What we do can be amazingly useful in disrupting hierarchies and forcing critical reflection When I ask how the publication determines what gets reviewed, Kelley explains how, for a long time, writers at the Wine Advocate had KPIs for the number of reviews published – trying to tackle as much as possible of the increasingly diverse world of fine wine in a bid for relevance. But he’s clear that needs to change: “We need to embrace the idea of reviewing fewer wines in more depth and following them more closely, because that reflects how people consume today,” he says. Part of that, for him, involves getting into vineyards and wineries to see how people are working, and spending enough time to fully understand it. He wants to put an end to gathering samples in anonymous tasting spaces; for him, the supposed neutrality of that experience is limiting. “How do you invest in the stock market if you know nothing about a company’s performance?” he says. “How do you define authenticity? For me, it’s about taking risks. It’s about exposure to negative consequences in pursuit of a goal, a conviction,” Kelley tells me – and it’s authenticity that he wants the Wine Advocate to be championing. “We’re in a period when winemaking conditions are more extreme, where traditional hierarchies of sites are being upended, and for the industry to digest all of that, we can be immensely useful voices.” He's clear that wine remains old-fashioned in many ways with an “aura of tradition” that consumers like, whether the family pedigree of certain estates (“We don’t want seventh-generation politicians, but suddenly we like nothing better than to buy a seventh-generation wine.”) or antiquated classifications (“Having a great classification is very nice – but it shouldn’t be a licence to print money. It should be an obligation to do better.”). The Wine Advocate, however, has the ability to champion young producers, shine a light on new names and question the current state of the industry. It can – in short – disrupt the status quo. One of the challenges with wine is that critics and writers are often dependent on producers for access, especially when it comes to the rarest and most sought-after wines. Truly impartial judgement is difficult when a low score or negative review risks not being invited back. (Kelley himself has been banned from estates – and sometimes later un-banned.) The industry is riddled with such conflicts of interest. But, for Kelley: “It’s not actually about avoiding [conflicts of interest], because you can’t… our business is about managing them; it’s about being very transparent.” We’re in a period when winemaking conditions are more extreme, where traditional hierarchies of sites are being upended While there are of course strict rules in place regarding hospitality and producers, the Wine Advocate’s expenses policy is generous enough, Kelley assures me, to allow writers to “engage with [producers] as an equal” – and ensure there’s no pay-to-play. Wine criticism isn’t renowned for its generous salaries, yet Kelley notes how important it is for reviewers “to be paid enough to buy the wines and have an independent relationship with [them]”. He highlights how it’s the bottles that he might have misjudged that have shaped him most professionally – lingering long in the memory as he tries to unravel how and why he might have misread a wine. Inevitably, Kelley is having to take a step back from reviewing to allow him to steer the ship. He’s expanding the team and plans to keep writing about Burgundy for now, but is keen to avoid “sitting on” any particular region (“I want to actually try to create new voices,” he says). When we talk, he hasn’t even hit six months in his role as Editor-in-Chief, and there is clearly more he wants to tackle, bringing further nuance to the way the Wine Advocate rates and reports on wines and producers. Wine writing was never the goal, however, and as he approaches a decade in his accidental career, his feet are getting itchy. He’s juggling his small project in the US (Beau Rivage) and his Burgundy label (largely négociant with two tiny parcels of his own, Beaune Premier Cru Les Chouacheaux and Côte de Beaune) alongside the job – and that’s where he wants to be. Once he’s finished his work reforming the Wine Advocate, he’ll be found among the vines in Burgundy. Wine is – and always will be – his life. “If it’s not an obsession, you’re not doing it right,” he says. It is this almost manic focus – a combination of true passion and intellectual curiosity – that is likely to define his work, both at the Wine Advocate and beyond.  Explore more Editorial

Earlier this year, William Kelley was named Editor-in-Chief of the Wine Advocate, taking over from his colleague Joe Czerwinski. We sat down with him to find out more about how he stumbled into writing, the role of critics today and why – for him – wine is much more than just a job    

The Wine Advocate’s new Editor-in-Chief, William Kelley, on stumbling into wine writing, the role of critics and why wine is much more than a job

Talking to the Wine Advocate’s William Kelley

Advocating for change: William Kelley

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

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

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

“Turbot,” Hugh Johnson says, the sense of satisfaction-to-come oozing down the phoneline. It’s a Friday morning and like any dedicated oenophile he’s already planned dinner, and – most importantly – what he’ll be drinking. I expected white Burgundy, something majestic drawn from a cavernous cellar, but Johnson – arguably the world’s most famous wine writer – is not nearly that traditional, or predictable. A Cambridge degree, a flawless RP accent, an air of good tailoring and tweed, and 60 years in the wine trade might lead you to think otherwise. But, throughout our conversation – even with a Covid-safe telephone call in lieu of a face-to-face – there’s an undeniable sense that there is forever a twinkle of mischief in his eye, and that Johnson is a man who enjoys being ever so slightly provocative. On the aforementioned Friday night, he was planning to uncork a bottle of Kit’s Coty Bacchus – “Giving it a good chance to show,” he says. Chapel Down’s single-vineyard bottling of England’s trademark grape comes from a chalky site on the North Downs, a spot that Hugh thinks is “a Grand Cru of the future”. He’s currently particularly excited about the prospects for England’s wine production – “Not just because I’m a patriotic citizen,” he reassures me.  “I’m passionate about the new school of English winemaking… wonderful characters and flavours are emerging from the south of England.” Gusbourne’s 2018 Pinot Noir “blew [his] socks off” and he’s keenly following low-dosage experiments such as Dermot Sugrue’s #ZODO. He wonders if perhaps the line of chalk between the North and South Downs could in fact be the Côte d’Or or Champagne of the future. It was an oft-quoted encounter with two Burgundies at university that set a young Johnson on the path to wine writing. I love the image of his university room-mate stumbling in a little too merrily, sloshing fine wine over the floor and Hugh’s undoubtedly immaculate notes, insisting that the serious and studious character sampled the two glasses in his unsteady hands. “One was magic and one was ordinary,” Hugh has said of the incident: he was instantly hooked. Cambridge’s Wine and Food Society laid the groundwork for his education, and he penned his first wine column for Vogue in 1960 – recommending a rather ambitious line-up that included 1955 Cheval Blanc and 1960 Ch. Margaux. There was a stint at House & Garden, then he took over from André Simon as editor of Wine & Food, joined The Sunday Times and started turning out a series of smash-hit books, starting with The World Atlas of Wine in 1971. His annual Pocket Wine Book – the world’s best-selling wine guide – has been solid stocking fodder for 44 years. The Story of Wine – first published in 1989, and a reprint of which is the cause for our conversation – is my personal favourite. It’s a book that captures exactly why I love wine: it literally seeps through our history, a liquid that links nations, cultures and generations. And Johnson’s passion for the topic drips off the page; writing that’s as intoxicating as the substance it describes. The oeuvre feels like it hasn’t aged a day since its initial publication, expertly tracing our ties to the vine and its fruit “from Noah to now”.   The copy I was gifted aged 21 is a hefty thing – an impractical hardback of coffee-table only proportions that precludes it being devoured the way it should be. I was delighted, therefore, to discover the latest edition is much more comfortably lap-sized – as Hugh describes it, “friendlier”. It’s a book that begs for an afternoon in the armchair. But it’s a book he never set out to write, and one that fell out of a foray onto the small screen. Much of the research was undertaken by a young history graduate Helen Bettinson, for a series aired the same year on Channel 4. “I learnt so much about history generally, never mind the wine part,” Hugh says. And that’s part of the joy of The Story of Wine – it’s not really a wine book; it’s just a great book, that happens to be about wine.  “When I started, there was very little knowledge around,” Hugh explains. “I saw my job as stirring up interest, encouraging people to enjoy wine in a very general kind of way.” The tricky thing, over the years, he says – has been avoiding the tendency to get closer to the subject, to focus on ever more detail – “sometimes a really boring amount of detail,” he chuckles. His heart sinks, he tells me, when someone asks him what the percentage of X grape is in a wine – “I’m not interested in percentages, yet the world is,” he laments. “To be frank, I sometimes think that journalists get into the nitty gritty because they have nothing better to say.” He’s a man tired of the state of wine writing (“glossy magazines full of incredibly boring photographs of vineyards”), and especially with winemaker profiles (“It’s pretty hard to engage the average consumer in the story of an Italian farmer: there are millions of them”). We should be, he feels, “getting the point of a wine” – but, most importantly, not the points. Johnson has long riled against scores. “My real beef against it is that it gives the impression that there’s something absolute going on,” Johnson says. He understands that for consumers it’s a short-cut (“you don’t have to read all the blurb”), but he’s fought long and hard to try and wean them off their numbers dependency. How something as varied and glorious as wine, something so dependent on “mood and moment” could be captured by mathematics – for Johnson – beggars belief. “The whole notion of a 100-point wine is unimaginable to me – how could it not be better?” For Johnson, a fine wine is a wine worth talking about – and that sums up rather neatly why scores are, for him, so offensive. As he says in the preface to the new edition of The Story of Wine, “If [wines] lack the power of speech they can still tell stories.” He’s sold 20 million books (and counting) filled with their stories, and his. But what’s next for the veteran wine writer? Well, proofs for his next gardening tome – the latest anthology of Trad’s Diary – are sitting on his desk awaiting attention. Then, of course, there’s that turbot – and a bottle of Bacchus hoping to tell its tale. The latest edition of The Story of Wine is available to purchase from Académie du Vin Library.  Read more Editorial

Since he started writing about wine in the 1960s, Hugh Johnson has sold 20 million books. As a new edition of The Story of Wine is published by Académie du Vin Library, Sophie Thorpe talks to the best-selling author about a lifetime spent telling – and selling – the stories behind every bottle

The best-selling author Hugh Johnson on a lifetime spent telling – and selling – the stories behind every bottle.

Hugh Johnson, the wine whisperer

Hugh Johnson: the wine whisperer

Kriter

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