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  

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

From humble beginnings in Beaujolais in the 1980s, the natural wine movement has become a global force. But what influence has it had just north in Burgundy’s long-established, terroir-focused appellations? Simon J Woolf explores the blurred line between classical and natural winegrowing

From Beaujolais to Burgundy, how has the natural wine movement shaped a terroir-driven region? For FONDATA Simon J Woolf explores the changing landscape.

Natural Wine’s Influence on Burgundy

Nature vs. Nurture: The quest for Burgundy’s true identity

Albiera Antinori is the first woman to take the helm of the Antinori empire. And “empire” isn’t an exaggeration for a dynasty that rose to prominence in the late 13th century, making its fortune in the silk trade, and later banking. The family has been making wine since at least 1385, when Giovanni di Pietro Antinori registered with the winemakers’ guild in Florence. To put that in perspective, that was before the Gutenberg bible was printed, before the fall of Constantinople, before Christopher Columbus set sail for the Americas.   Now, over six centuries later, Marchesi Antinori owns almost 3,000 hectares of vines across 21 estates (plus additional land that is dedicated to forest, olive groves etc) spread across the globe, and is among the oldest family businesses in the world (sitting at number 10 globally). Once part of Italy’s aristocratic elite, the Medici family line may have faded into extinction, but the Antinoris – like the Ricasolis – still hold significant sway.  Looking at Albiera Antinori on my screen, however, it’s hard to tie this pedigree to the woman in front of me. Now aged 58, she – along with her two sisters – represents the 26th generation of the family. Olive-skinned, relaxed and with a gentle smile, she props her glasses back on her head once the inevitable technical issues are resolved, settling back into her chair for our Zoom call. She may be one of the most powerful figures in Italian wine, but you wouldn’t know it.   Harvest is just getting underway as we sit down to talk about her family and its legacy – a time that she remembers fondly as a child. She grew up in Florence, but spent weekends and holidays in Bolgheri or at Tenuta Tignanello in Chianti – and wine was simply part of life. Some of her earliest memories are of the harvest and sipping wine (diluted with a drop of water) over dinner at Tignanello, gathered around the table with her grandfather, Niccolò Antinori, and the rest of the family.  It was when Albiera finished school that wine moved into the foreground. She didn’t yet know what she wanted to do and – with harvest at Castello della Sala was set to start in a few weeks’ time – her father, Piero Antinori, suggested she work there, that way she’d at least be earning some money while she figured things out. “From then on, it’s been a kind of snowball,” she says, smiling. Once the fruit was in, the wines needed making, there were vineyards to be managed and planted, and soon she was travelling, telling the world about the wines her family made. She had fallen down the rabbit hole.  Has she ever wondered about the path not taken? No, is the short answer, she tells me – and she’s been able to combine her other passions with work for Antinori. Take architecture: she has overseen the construction of 12 wineries during her tenure, working closely with the team to develop the perfect building for each.   She officially took the reins of the business in 2017 – but, as the eldest, she almost fell into the role of CEO. She may be at the top of the figurative tree, but it’s a family business through and through. She works closely with her sisters, both of whom are Vice Presidents (Alessia oversees the winemaking and Allegra manages the company’s various restaurants). Their father Piero – now approaching 90 – is still in the office every day too.   The Antinori name has long been associated with boundary-pushing. Albiera’s grandfather Niccolò was one of the first to stir things up in Chianti. In 1924, he put Bordeaux varieties in the family’s Villa Antinori Chianti – a scandalous act at the time. Niccolò’s brother-in-law was Mario Incisa della Rocchetta, who planted Cabernet Sauvignon on his wife’s Tenuta San Guido estate in 1944. The wine was made for family and friends at first, but when Piero Antinori (Niccolò’s son and Albiera’s father) took over running the family business in 1966, he saw the potential. Giacomo Tachis, the Antinori winemaker, started making the wine and ageing it in new French oak. By 1971, Piero had persuaded his uncle to release the 1968 vintage commercially: Sassicaia – and the Super Tuscan movement – was born. It wasn’t long before Piero followed with his own offering, releasing the first vintage (1971) of Tignanello – a blend of Sangiovese and Cabernet from their eponymous estate in Chianti Classico – in 1978. Solaia soon followed (first made in 1978).  “The equilibrium between innovation and tradition is always something very delicate,” says Albiera. The family’s revolutionary spirit lives on, but she’s aware that their history, legacy and tradition is “a real asset” – one that shouldn’t be overlooked in today’s global wine market. While once they had to force the world to acknowledge the quality of Italian wine, now their focus on celebrating local varieties and creating wines that are true to their terroir. That remains true across their estates – no longer just in Tuscany, but from Puglia to Piedmont, as well as beyond – with properties in Chile and California (including Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars). At its core, however, their philosophy can be summed up in one word, she says: quality.  The next generation is already on board, with Albiera’s children Vittorio and Verdiana working alongside her. Their journey was totally different – going to university, taking master’s degrees and gaining experience at wineries around the world – a more conscious step into the family business. There was, however, no denying their fate.  Being an Antinori, Albiera says, “means a responsibility towards the people that work with us, towards the history that we have, and towards the land that we farm… a solid and constant commitment to doing things well, to doing things with intelligence, to do things that are long-lasting”. After six centuries in the business and a portfolio of estates around the world, that responsibility continues to grow – but it’s a duty the Antinoris seem uniquely suited to handling.  The new vintage of Solaia (2022) is now available  Explore all current Antinori listings or read more Editorial 

The Antinoris are one of Italy’s most famous families. As the new vintage of Solaia is released, we caught up with Albiera Antinori – the 26th-generation CEO and President of her family firm

Sitting down with Albiera Antinori – CEO of Marchesi Antinori, company that created Super Tuscan Tignanello to find out more about their wine dynasty 

Talking to Albiera Antinori about the family’s wine empire 

The Antinori empire 

Inspired by a Russian, first made by a Hungarian, who was succeeded by a Frenchman and then a German, the winemaking lineage at Masseto has been decidedly international – until now, that is. Since January 2024, the leading Super Tuscan and Ornellaia’s sibling estate has had its first native at the helm: Marco Balsimelli – born in Arezzo, not far from Siena, took the reins from longtime Production Director Axel Heinz.  Balsimelli comes with his own illustrious pedigree, having long been based in Bordeaux, working at Gruaud Larose and, since 2010, alongside the famous Eric Boissenot as a consultant winemaker to many of the region’s leading estates, but the chance to work at Ornellaia and Masseto – iconic names from his Tuscan homeland – was an opportunity he couldn’t turn down.  It was André Tchelistcheff (the Russian-born Napa winemaker) who first suggested to Lodovico Antinori that a particular hill on the Ornellaia estate would be perfect for Merlot. Tchelistcheff was consulting for Antinori, and recognised the potential of the parcel of blue clay – the same soil that is synonymous with Pétrus. Back then, in the 1980s, Merlot was barely planted in Tuscany and remained an unknown quantity in the region, with only Castello di Ama – based further inland in Chianti Classico – having some vines (today used for its flagship L’Apparita). Nevertheless, the Ornellaia team took a chance and planted most of the seven-hectare swathe of clay in 1984 (additional planting took place in 1995).  The first vintage of Merlot from the site was made in 1987: Masseto was born. The name comes from “masso”, Italian for rock, after the large boulder-like clumps of clay that dot the vineyard’s surface. It didn’t take long for the wine to earn international acclaim, with Wine Spectator giving the 2001 vintage 100 points, and its place was cemented in vinous history.  Although Tchelistcheff consulted until 1989, replaced by Michel Rolland from 1991, Hungarian Tibor Gál was the property’s first winemaker. Gál was succeeded by Thomas Duroux (now of Ch. Palmer), who in 2005 passed the baton to Axel Heinz, the German-born winemaker who preceded Balsimelli. The property has changed hands over the years too, with the Mondavi family taking a share in 1999 before buying it outright from Lodovico Antinori, and selling it onto the Frescobaldi family, who took full ownership of Ornellaia and Masseto from 2005.  Much might have changed, but the terroir hasn’t. “It’s a very special site,” Balsimelli tells me. The all-important clay dominates the topsoil, which is only about a metre deep. When it rains, the clay swells, making it near impossible for the vines’ roots to develop. High sodium levels in the soils only accentuate the problem. “For the roots, it’s a battle every day,” he says. It’s that struggle, he feels, that you can taste in the concentrated, high-acid fruit from the site.  The climate is key too, lying just 10 kilometres from the Tyrrhenian Sea. Fresh marine breezes mean the temperature is around 5°C lower than that in central Tuscany, with a drop of circa 15°C from day to night. Combine this with the light reflected off the sea, and you get a long growing season, preserving aromatics and acidity, yet encouraging phenolic ripeness – wines that combine perfume and power. Surrounded by forest, there is a reason that Masseto is run as an entirely separate project to Ornellaia, with its own unique identity – even if it has always shared a winemaker (and, until 2019, a winery) with its sibling estate.  For Balsimelli, the project has provided a fresh challenge. The shift away from a consultant role – no longer offering advice before moving on to the next project, but sitting with each and every decision – adds a new weight of responsibility. “I spend a lot of time thinking about the technical questions and the consequences,” he tells me. Since most of his work with Boissenot had been based on Bordeaux’s Left Bank, focused on Cabernet-driven blends from larger estates, working with a small property, focused on just one variety and various sub-plots is a different sort of jigsaw puzzle. The approach, for him, is much more Burgundian – all about expressing the purity of the site and its blue clay. “You have to be perfect with only one type of soil and one grape variety,” he explains.  The quest for perfection was started long ago at Masseto and today the vines average between 20 and 30 years in age. They’ve also been moving from cordon-trained to bush vines – first trialled in 2008 and something which they have found helps temper the effects of global warming (coping better in dry conditions and shading the fruit from the heat of the sun). Farmed organically since 2012, there has also been a significant focus on encouraging biodiversity across the site, including using cover crops to reduce soil compaction, increase organic matter and retain humidity in the soils.  Balsimelli’s first vintage was 2024, which won’t be released until 2027. But he’s clearly excited by the site, as well as how he can tweak and improve a wine that is already lauded by critics and consumers. “When you taste old vintages of Masseto, you can feel the legacy, taste the terroir,” he says – and that’s exactly what he wants to do moving forward, channelling the Boissenot philosophy: understanding a piece of land and finding the best solution to express it in the glass. For him, that solution will be all about accentuating the wine’s elegance.  He notes how there was – across the world of wine – a trend towards low yield and high levels of maturity in the early 2000s, but his preferred vintages are those that saw more balance. The 2006, for example, is his favourite at the moment – a year with more rainfall, more vigour, and – he feels – more energy as a result. It’s a vintage that he believes is “the key for the future”.  The site is one that can ripen quickly, and he plans to focus on freshness, maybe picking a little earlier, reducing extraction and lowering temperatures for maceration. The 2022 is the vintage set to be released this September – a wine that Balsimelli notes shows just how good the site is – performing even in tricky conditions such as 2022’s hot growing season. It is, he says, “the magic of Massseto”. Magic it may be, but Balsimelli is set on elevating this special estate even further.   Explore all current listings of Masseto or read more Editorial 

Often considered the Pétrus of Italy, Masseto is a wine like no other. Ahead of the new release, we sat down with Marco Balsimelli – the man at the helm today – to talk about the special site and what lies ahead for the Super Tuscan 

Talking to the Super Tuscan’s new Production Director Marco Balsimelli about Masseto, Ornellaia sibling estate and its unique Merlot wines

The magic of Masseto - Marco Balsimelli

The magic of Masseto

What is Krug?  Krug is one of the most famous Champagne Houses in the world. It is unusual for making only prestige cuvées and is prized by fine wine lovers, seen by many as the pinnacle of fine Champagne – competing with the likes of Cristal and Dom Pérignon.  When was Krug first made?  Joseph Krug established Krug & Compagnie in 1843 with a wine merchant friend, Hyppolyte de Vivès. Born in Mainz in 1800, Johann-Joseph Krug was the son of a butcher. He dropped the Johann, moved to Paris in 1834 and worked as a bookkeeper at Champagne Jacquesson before starting to blend his first wines with De Vivès, trials for what would eventually become the Krug project.  Is Krug still owned by the Krug family?  No – although the family is still very much involved.  When Joseph passed away in 1866, his son Paul took over the business. In 1868 he moved the business to 5 Rue Coquebert in Reims, the address still occupied by Krug today and home to its historic cellars. The company passed to Paul’s son Joseph II in 1910, but his wife Jeanne took the reins when Joseph II became a prisoner of war during the First World War. Joseph II’s nephew Jean Seydoux became a joint manager after the war, with the business passing to Paul Krug II (Joseph II’s son) in 1959 and then to Henri and Rémi Krug, who joined the company in the 1960s and took over in 1977.  Brothers Henri and Rémi were pivotal in developing the House – expanding the range, building its international reputation and overseeing its sale to luxury goods conglomerate LVMH in 1999. Although they continued to manage the House, the financial backing of LVMH only allowed Krug to thrive. In 2009, Olivier Krug – the sixth generation of his family – took over as Director of the House and remains at the helm today.  What is the Krug style?  Often quite deep golden in colour, Krug is renowned for its use of oak, choosing to ferment all its base wines in old 205-litre oak barrels, allowing micro-oxygenation. This, combined with long lees ageing (minimum six years for non-vintage and 10 for vintage wines), produces a powerful, broad and richly autolytic style of wine, layered with bread, biscuit and brioche notes. The huge number of blending components used for Grande Cuvée makes a particularly complex non-vintage – or as they prefer to call it, multi-vintage – wine. The House also favours picking on the earlier side to retain freshness in the wines. Dosage here is average with the wines labelled Brut, and dosage normally sitting around 5-6g/l in modern releases.  It's interesting to note that Krug feels Meunier is an important element in their blends (sometimes viewed as a lesser grape by Champagne Houses), valuing the mid-palate generosity it brings to wines. Meunier often represents 15-25% of the House’s vintage blends.   What are the different Krug wines?  Joseph Krug had clear ideas about how to make the best Champagne and famously outlined these in his burgundy-coloured leather notebook (which is on display at the Krug family headquarters today). He declared that the House would only make two cuvées, intended to be of equal quality. Cuvée No 1 was a non-vintage wine, conceived to be “the fullest expression of Champagne every year” (embodied today by Grande Cuvée), while Cuvée No 2 would express each vintage. He also firmly believed in the importance of site, writing, “We cannot obtain good wines without using good elements and good terroirs.”  For many years, the House continued to produce just two wines, but the range has since expanded. Although the non-vintage and vintage wines were intended to be equal in quality, the vintage wines command higher prices today.  The Krug range consists of six wines:  Krug Grande Cuvée: Grande Cuvée is Krug’s flagship non-vintage, or multi-vintage (MV), wine, and the modern Cuvée No 1, and previously known as Private Cuvée (until 1978, see below for more on this). There are up to 200 components in each bottling of the wine, combining over 10 vintages (the youngest six years old, the oldest over 20 years old). While it is the House’s “entry-level” offering today, the House holds back many of its best wines from top vintages for the wine. It spends minimum seven years’ ageing on lees prior to disgorgement, with an additional year on cork prior to release. Unlike many non-vintage wines, the goal is not for the wine to be entirely consistent between releases, but to make “the fullest expression of Champagne”. From 2011, this was acknowledged officially when Krug added the Krug ID to every bottle (see more below). In 2016, the House took this further and decided to add an Edition number to each release, starting with Edition 163 (for which the base year was 2007). Some collectors seek out particular editions of Grande Cuvée, with 164 (base 2008) or 168 (base 2012) unsurprisingly lauded. Half-bottles don’t have the edition number on the label, so you need to use the Krug ID to identify the specific bottling.  Krug Rosé: The House’s other non-vintage wine, Krug Rosé was created by Henri and Rémi Krug in the 1970s, with the first release based on the 1976 vintage, released in 1983. The wine is a blend of white wines, with around 11% still red Pinot Noir blended in, combining anything between 20 and 70 different components from five vintages, spending minimum six years on its lees. As for Grande Cuvée, in 2016 Krug added an Edition number to the Rosé label, starting with Edition 21 (base 2008).   Krug Clos du Mesnil: Clos du Mesnil is a single-vineyard vintage Blanc de Blancs Champagne, and one of Krug’s top wines. Champagne expert Richard Juhlin describes it as “the best wine in the world”. Henri and Rémi Krug purchased six hectares of Chardonnay in Le Mesnil-sur-Oger in 1971 and when they went to inspect the vineyards they discovered it included a walled 1.84-hectare plot in the heart of the village. On the wall is inscribed, “In the year 1698, this wall was built by Claude Jannin and Pierre Dehée Metoen and in the same year the vines were planted by Gaspard Jannin, son of Claude.” They replanted the site and at first the fruit was blended into the House’s other wines, however they found that the warmer microclimate – surrounded by buildings – produced a distinctive wine, and they decided to bottle it separately. The first vintage was 1979, released in 1986 – at a time when a single variety, single site wine was pioneering. Aged for minimum a decade on its lees, it is only made in certain vintages where the quality allows.  To date, the vintages of Clos du Mesnil produced are: 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1983, 1985, 1986, 1988, 1989, 1990, 1992, 1995, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2006, 2008 and 2009.  Krug Clos d’Ambonnay: Pure Pinot Noir from a single 0.68-hectare plot, Clos d’Ambonnay is Krug’s other single-vineyard vintage wine. Henri and Rémi found this site on the edge of the village of Ambonnay, on the southeastern slope of the Montagne de Reims, in 1991, managing to purchase it in 1994. Like Clos du Mesnil, the site is a walled vineyard, with the walls dating back to 1766, although vines weren’t planted until the 20th century. The first vintage of the Blanc de Noirs was produced in 1995 and released in 2007. As with Clos du Mesnil, it sees long lees ageing (minimum a decade) and is only made where vintage conditions allow. Given the size of the vineyard, Clos d’Ambonnay is particularly rare.  To date, the vintages produced of Clos d’Ambonnay are: 1995, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2002, 2006 and 2008.  Krug Clos d’Ambonnay Rosé: The first vintage of Krug’s Clos d’Ambonnay Rosé is set to be released in autumn 2025, the 2008 vintage. The first new cuvée since the House launched Clos d’Ambonnay, the wine is a rosé from the same single vineyard, including 15% still red wine in the blend.  Krug Vintage: The other wine conceived by founder Joseph Krug, Cuvée No 2, was a vintage wine that the House still produces today. It is only made in vintages deemed worthy by the House and spends over 10 years on its lees prior to disgorgement.  Recent vintages produced of Krug vintage are: 1988, 1995, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2006, 2008 and 2011.  Krug Collection: In the 1980s, Krug introduced its Collection – a late-disgorged release of more mature wines, normally offered around 25 years after the vintage. These wines have been kept in the House’s cellars, ageing in perfect conditions. Releases to date include: 1981, 1982, 1985, 1988, 1989, 1990 and 1995.  What is Private Cuvée?  Private Cuvée was the previous name for Grande Cuvée, the House’s non-vintage wine, labelled as such from 1862 to 1978. Champagne expert Richard Juhlin notes that the style shifted with the name change, with Grande Cuvée a little lighter more Chardonnay-driven and more multi-faceted, however Private Cuvée was closer to a vintage wine in style with more weight. “The style from the 20’s to the 60’s is strikingly constant and if you find a bottle with a good level and with a price tag you can handle, it is a chance you must not miss,” he writes of Private Cuvée.  How much Krug Champagne is made?  Production for the House is kept firmly under wraps, however estimates suggest around 425,000 bottles are made each year.  What is Krug ID?  This six-digit code features on the back label of every bottle of Krug and allows the drinker to find out about their specific bottle of, with the first three digits indicating the quarter and year of disgorgement. You can look up the ID on the House’s website or app to find the blend, oldest and youngest wines, tasting notes, food and music pairing suggestions. The Krug ID was introduced in 2011, so only appears on bottles released after that date.  Does Krug own vineyards?  Krug’s expertise was historically winemaking and blending, and always operated as a négociant, as was the norm for the Grandes Marques in Champagne. Krug bought fruit from carefully selected sites to make their wines, but Henri and Rémi purchased the House’s first vineyards in 1971 – including the now famous Clos du Mesnil.  Today Krug owns 21 hectares of vines, representing around 20% of their production, supplementing this with purchased fruit. Krug sources its Chardonnay, Pinot Noir and Meunier from the villages of Ambonnay, Aÿ, Le Mesnil-sur-Oger and Trépail. All their contracts are for specific parcels, many based on generations-long relationships, with their oldest contract dating back to 1876.  Krug has been increasingly focused on sustainability, not using any herbicides or pesticides in its own vineyards and the estate vineyards are certified organic as of the 2024 vintage.  Who makes Krug?  As with any winery, there is a large team involved in producing Krug – including the growers supplying fruit and those in the winery at Krug. Eric Lebel was the longtime cellarmaster, from 1999 to 2019, handing over to Julie Cavil who worked alongside Lebel for 13 years before taking the reins at the start of 2020.  When it comes to deciding on the blends, there is a tasting committee, led by Cavil and usually with Olivier Krug. The committee meets every day between the end of harvest and March, tasting 15 samples each day (a strict maximum to ensure their judgement isn’t impacted by palate fatigue). Over the period, they aim to taste all 400 samples two or three times in total. Each taster has to describe each sample with just a single word, which cannot be duplicated by any other taster – something that Cavil feels helps give a better overall picture of the wines.  How is Krug made?  As already mentioned, all Krug’s base wines are fermented in old oak. They use 205-litre barrels, averaging 20 years in age, often retired at around 40 years. They do not block malolactic fermentation but do not encourage it, so some wines do go through malolactic fermentation. Post fermentation, the wines are transferred to stainless steel tank (they are not aged in wood, as at Henri Giraud, for example). The blends are decided by the House’s Tasting Committee (led by Cellar Master Julie Cavil) between the end of harvest and April, before being bottled and spending minimum seven years on their lees (10 years for the vintage wines).  Where is Krug made?  For almost two centuries, the wines were made at Krug’s historic premises in Reims, however as of 2024 the winemaking has moved to its new Joseph winery, just next to Clos d’Ambonnay.   What’s the deal with Krug and Burning Man?  Krug caused some controversy when it shot a marketing campaign at the Burning Man festival at Black Rock in Nevada in 2011. The shoot and brand were denounced by the Burning Man organisation for not complying with its principles, commercialising the festival and community.  Why is Krug’s bottle shaped differently?  Krug’s distinctive narrow-necked bottle was introduced in 1978, at the same time as it changed the name of Private Cuvée to Grande Cuvée. The House previously used standard Champagne bottles. Beyond making Krug’s bottles even more distinctive, the narrow neck is intended to reduce oxygen exchange over the ageing process.  How does Krug age?  Krug is renowned for its ageing potential – with all the House’s wines, including the non-vintage cuvées, designed to evolve in bottle. Champagne expert Essi Avellan MW notes: “All Krugs benefit from ageing. Five years after release, they tend to have opened up beautifully, showing more expression and a beautifully harmonious nature. Grand Cuvées are a real delight some 10 to 15 years after release, often at the peak of their expression. The vintages are all long-lived; thereafter it depends on the vintage (and the individual bottle, of course) as to how they age. When well kept, all should age for at least 15 years post-release, and the best for several decades.”  Explore all Krug listings, including the new releases of Grande Cuvée and Rosé, or read more about Champagne and sparkling wine 

Krug is a name with reach far beyond wine lovers, the gold label and iconic bottle shape immediately recognisable. As the latest editions of Grande Cuvée and Rosé are released, we have compiled an insider’s guide to this legendary Champagne house and its wines

Everything you need to know about Krug Champagne – the luxury House and its iconic Grande Cuvee, Rose, Clos du Mesnil, Clos d’Ambonnay and vintage wines

Your essential guide to Krug Champagne 

Everything you need to know about Krug 

Long ago, we wrenched grapevines from their natural habitat. Enthusiastic creepers, their shoots and tendrils are designed to cling onto whatever they can as they grow; winding themselves around trees or other plants in the wild. But we dragged vines out of the forest and forced them into rigid trellises, taming their wayward growth to produce a crop that served our purpose. Now, however, there’s a movement to re-integrate trees and plants into viticulture.  Cheval Blanc is one of the most famous proponents of agroforestry, which is a key part of its manifesto on a modern approach to viticulture. Augustin Fromageot – who now works full time at Anjou’s Domaine Belargus – was one of the team involved in the project, planting over 4,000 trees at the estate in two years. Until then, Fromageot – a trained geologist – had been working in South America, largely in cocoa and coffee, but the vine was calling. The team converted the estate into a laboratory of sorts – experimenting with different ways to integrate trees, within rows, replacing rows, in copses and borders or any other way you can imagine planting them alongside vines, all set to be followed in scientific programmes to track what works and what doesn’t. Now he’s doing a similar thing at Belargus, managing their extensive nature reserve and working to increase biodiversity on the estate – working to manage the landscape, as he sees it.  It’s an oversimplification to suggest that vines have gone directly from wild creepers to industrialised monocultures. Historically, farming was poly-cultural, a smallholding contained everything a family needed – and vines often formed part of that. Pergola trellising, for example, allowed for other crops to be planted beneath, while trees being used as a living trellis was not uncommon – often referenced as married vines, the Roman method of arbusta (favoured by Pliny, for example) – and grown alongside each other, culture en hautain, cultura mista or joualle. It’s this latter method, favoured in southwest France a century or so ago, that Cheval Blanc has in part been trialling, with individual trees replacing vines within a row. It looks beautiful, however brings its own complications, limiting mechanisation. It is, as Fromageot, says, a “poetic” way to integrate trees. You’ll still find vines trained up trees in Bolivia, in the Cinti Valley (as for the Jardín Oculto project), although these are ancient examples – and few would plant vines like this today. It’s an impractical way to farm, at the end of the day, one that only worked on a very small scale, but it’s clear that industrialisation has pushed monocultures too far – and agroforestry is one way in which producers are trying to fix the damage done.  Trees are remarkable in many ways, but they can have a huge impact on a vineyard. Their physical presence can influence the microclimate – protecting a vineyard from frost, heat and wind, as well as acting as a physical barrier between neighbouring properties – preventing any unwanted sprays drifting into your vines. They increase biodiversity – providing a habitat for insects and animals, in particular bats, and they absorb carbon dioxide. They reduce soil erosion (with topsoil erosion a major threat to agriculture worldwide) and increase organic matter, which in turn increases soil’s water-holding capacity – a major plus in dry regions. For Fromageot, trees help to create a resilience in the vineyard, reinforcing the vines’ natural defences, and therefore reducing the number of treatments required.   It’s easy to look at such a list and understand the principles at play. Clearly there are benefits for the environment – but what does it mean for the wine in your glass? Well, a lot, potentially. As few as five trees will influence the microclimate in a 100-metre radius; they can reduce the temperature in a parcel by as much as 2-3°C, preserving acidity, lowering alcohol and retaining precision in the aromatics. And, shielding a vineyard from extreme frost or heat, as well as providing better water reserves in the soils, allows for a more consistent yield, all of which is beneficial with climate change – with both more extreme weather conditions and global warming.  Of course, it’s not quite as simple as it sounds. “It teaches us an immense humility,” Fromageot tells me, as I start asking him about the world of agroforestry, and more specifically vitiforestry. He’s more than aware that agroforestry has become a buzzword in wine – it's suddenly very trendy. But there’s a lot of work involved in planting and managing trees. For starters, deciding where and how to plant trees is key. Their ability to influence microclimate can be both good and bad – with the potential to create frost pockets, to increase humidity, reduce airflow and therefore disease pressure. “You need to read the landscape,” Fromageot explains.  You also have to decide what sort of tree to plant, as well as the rootstock, ensuring it will complement viticulture. The first thing Fromageot does when taking on a project is look at all the local nurseries to understand the native varieties. Fruit trees are common, but as he notes, you need to ensure it has a different harvest time to grapes to avoid any conflict – he looks to apples, pears and prunes, in particular, highlighting how challenging peaches and apricots can be. Otherwise, the likes of maple, ash, mulberry, black poplar, hornbeam and linden can all work – essentially trees that share the same type of mycorrhizae (the microorganisms that attach to roots) as vines. You want to avoid anything that might taint your wine, or anything that will inhibit growth – such as walnut trees, which produce a toxic compound, juglone.  Trees have significantly different requirements to vines, needing different equipment and expertise to thrive, with – for example – extensive fertilisation to establish trees, which need richer soils. Trees will – wherever they are planted – occupy space that could otherwise be used for vines, yielding additional crop. And it’s a slow process, with it taking around a decade for trees to start influencing viticulture in a meaningful way, says Fromageot. All of this costs time and money – making agroforestry a luxury that not all producers can afford, although Fromageot feels that trees can be integrated in a different way for producers working at scale.  Alain Canet – an agronomist and specialist in agroforestry – argues that re-introducing trees is crucial for agriculture. “For some soils it is already too late,” he writes. “But for most, we have time to act... In agroecological terms, the transition to trees is the transition to life.”  There are many scientific reasons to favour vitiforestry, but for Fromageot there is a more compelling reason: the landscape fixes people to a geography, to a place, and that – he argues – is essential for making fine wine. Beauty in the landscape you live and work in helps us “find sense in life”, he tells me. Romantic? Maybe. But with the science to back it up, it’s hard not to be persuaded that trees line the way to a more sustainable future – in wine, yes, but in wider agriculture too. 

Agroforestry is the latest trend to take over the world of fine wine – but why? We sat down with Domaine Belargus’s Augustin Fromageot to find out why trees might just be the key to sustainable viticulture 

Agroforestry is the latest trend to take over the world of fine wine – but why? We sat down with Domaine Belargus’s Augustin Fromageot to find out more

Trees and wine: exploring the world of vitiforestry

Putting down roots: the world of vitiforestry 

At Lafite Rothschild, Antoine Granger said that while vintages like 1986 (“rich but good”), 1990 and 1996 are drinking well, the 2000 is “beautiful” and the 2005 “brilliant”.  It might be young, but – if you can decant it 12 hours in advance – the more modest 2022 Duhart-Milon is also showing well, he noted. Joséphine Duffau-Lagarrosse also pointed to 2000 (a “fabulous” vintage) at Beauséjour, while she finds that some 2004s are superb. She also recently had tasted 2005 Latour and said it was “magnifique”.   For Pierre-Olivier Clouet at Cheval Blanc, 2004 is a vintage he loves. The 1998 is drinking very well, he noted, but the 2009 and 2012 are brilliant – having never shut down, something echoed elsewhere. He’s just starting to broach the 2007, a wine which he says was “a teenager” for a long time but is now starting to reveal its potential. The 2012 is also, for him, a new sort of 2011.  Palmer’s Sébastien Menut was another to point to 2007 – saying how well it was drinking, and a recent bottle of 2014 Trotanoy was a real standout bottle for him.   For Juliette Couderc, the 2009 and 2012 Evangile are still winners – although there isn’t that much left around, sadly; she likes the 2008 too, but feels the 2004 and 2005 aren’t yet ready, while vintages like 2016, 2018, 2019 need more time before broaching. Indeed, at Vieux Château Certan, Alexandre Thienpont pointed to 2009 (a vintage he feels is just starting to open up – reenforced by a bottle our team enjoyed in Bordeaux during primeurs) and the 2012 is drinking well.  David Suire at Ch. Laroque is happy to uncork almost any vintage between 1995 and 2020, he told us (anything older requires a special occasion, he joked), but highlighted the 2014 as a wine that is starting to open up, and – although still young – the 2019 is a very fine wine that is brilliant, it just needs decanting. And he’s not the only one to be enjoying the 2019s: Troplong Mondot’s Ferréol du Fou has been drinking the 2019 a lot, decanting it for an hour or two, while he was also particularly enthusiastic about the 2017s – wines which he feels are drinking well from across Bordeaux.  At La Conseillante, Marielle Cazaux echoed this – the 2019 is pure pleasure, for her, a “silky, delicious fruit bomb” at this youthful stage, and the 2017 is similarly rewarding. Looking back a bit further, she’s still waiting for the 2015 to emerge, but loves the 2012 – which combines tertiary complexity with power.   Shop the wines or read more about the region 

All eyes may currently be on the nascent 2024s, but in amongst primeurs, we took a moment to talk to Bordeaux’s top producers about the vintages to drink now. Here’s what those in the know are pulling the cork on

As the 2024 vintage is released en primeur, we asked Bordeaux’s top produces which vintages are best to drink now: here’s what they said 

Bordeaux: the best vintages and wines to drink now 

Bordeaux vintages to drink now  

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

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

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

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

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

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