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  

Sitting opposite us, the dark-suited, dark-haired figure waved an elegant hand at the bottle of white Burgundy which he’d just fished out of a carrier bag and planted on the table with the air of a conjuror at a party. “You’ll like this,” he said; it was a statement, not a suggestion, delivered in a faint accent with American overtones and a hint of gutturality. In this totally unremarkable West London pub, a bottle of Meursault looked as out of place as a KGB officer. Which he was. We did like it, of course, who wouldn’t? It made the greasy steak and chips almost bearable, and was one of the best wines I’d ever tasted at that point in my life. I was 33 that year, 1978, and as a newish BBC foreign correspondent I wasn’t particularly well paid. He’d brought the Meursault with him to show us how sophisticated he was, and to counter the blandness of the food. But why had he suggested The Mitre as a place for lunch? It was handy for the Soviet embassy up the road, certainly; but I realised that the real attraction for him was the high-backed seats that enclosed our table and kept our conversation private. Sergei was a major in the KGB, masquerading as a press attaché. The habit of secrecy was deeply ingrained in him. The Meursault started to work on my companion, a gossipy, amusing, slightly naïve BBC executive. It worked on me, too, but under the influence of alcohol I tend to go quiet and introverted. Not so Harry. He delivered the brief lecture about Soviet harassment of our Moscow correspondent which he’d been planning. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t make Sergei burst into tears. On the contrary. “Ah, yes, the famous Declan.” Sergei managed to put the accent on the second syllable. “Such good Russian. A pity he wastes his time hanging around those drop-outs and wastrels.” I was particularly impressed by ‘wastrels’. “I suppose you mean dissidents,” I said, pushing my glass across for more Meursault. The label read ‘1968’; the Soviet embassy must have had a superb cellar. Sergei laughed scornfully and poured. “I hear Declan’s marriage isn’t going so good now,” he said. “Ah, no, his wife left him for an airline pilot,” Harry replied, giggling. I kicked him sharply: you didn’t feed personal details about your colleagues to KGB officers. “What?” Harry said, looking at me. We saw the bottle out. Sometimes I think I can still taste that rich, green-gold collection of butter, almond, citrus and, could it have been, or is it just my imagination after more than 40 years, hints of bracken and mayflower. At the end, we stood up and shook hands. “So you’ll go easy on Declan from now on?” Harry said. “Well, Declan must stop creating bad propaganda against the Soviet Union.” He had a good ear: this time the accent was on the first syllable. Sergei turned in the direction of the embassy, and we headed back to Television Centre. “Bloody good wine those Russkies can afford,” Harry said, and gave his high-pitched laugh.For journalists and spies, booze is a famous lubricant, a fuel, even. I came from a teetotal background, yet when I started as a foreign correspondent I soon found myself ordering a glass of single malt as a means of self-protection, while someone I was trying to pump for information opened up and talked in a way he or she never would if I’d ordered a Britvic orange. Yet there were exceptions. In Belfast and Derry, where I started my reporting career, the leaders of the Provisional IRA were mostly ultra-Catholic and never drank a drop; and as I branched out and began reporting on the Middle East, I found that organisations like Hezbollah and the followers of the Ayatollah were as teetotal as I had once been. There were no bars to meet them in, either. Fortunately, though, cities like Cairo and Beirut were more sophisticated. I soon found that anywhere with a sizeable Christian population, Egypt and Lebanon, of course, but also Syria, Iraq and westernised countries like Turkey and Pakistan, made allowances for thirsty westerners and permitted them to drink, even if in cities like Peshawar you had to sign a big leather volume and register yourself as an alcoholic. The bar in the old Commodore Hotel in Beirut was a wonderful centre for professional alcoholics of this kind. I first went there in June 1982, when West Beirut was under hourly attack from Israeli planes and tanks, and there were no shelters to protect us. The presiding spirit of the place was a correspondent called Chris Drake, a hospitable soul who dispensed booze and information even-handedly. When the barrage was going on, it would have been suicidal to leave the Commodore, and the building shuddered to every nearby explosion. Chris Drake had a parrot, and when the bar was packed in the evening with journalists glad to still be alive, it would imitate the sound of a shell in flight with startling accuracy. Most of the people there, not me, thank God, had walked into the bar on their first night, heard the parrot’s hugely convincing whistle, and thrown themselves on the floor shouting “Incoming!”. There would be a roar of laughter, and someone would help them up and offer them a glass of arak, an infusion of grapes and the seeds of the anise plant. I acquired a real taste for arak at that time, and I still think of that slightly oily, metallic, liquorice-tasting liquid hitting the back of my throat and burning its way down. A few years later, during another upsurge of fighting, the Commodore was heavily shelled by the Syrian army. The building was destroyed, and no trace of the parrot was ever found. When peace was restored and there was money around, the Commodore was rebuilt, much bigger and more glitzy, but the architect designed a new bar precisely where the old one had once been. You can still see the space on the floor where many a famous journalist measured his length when the parrot did its party trick. I took my wife and 13-year-old son there a couple of years ago, and one afternoon, when the bar was empty, my son insisted on re-enacting the whole thing. In China, things were different. Meetings with underground figures usually took place at their homes or outdoors, given the fear of surveillance. I often chose Ritan Park in Beijing, where teahouses served pu-erh tea and offered a discreet place to talk. By contrast, official meetings required alcohol, specifically Maotai, a fierce baijiu distilled from sorghum at over 50% ABV. At one banquet, after being insulted by a local Party official, I tried to outdrink him. The plan failed, he had help, but we still ended the night collapsed together, singing in two languages. The next day, I was told this had enhanced British prestige. Countries where alcohol is banned present different challenges. In Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, I smuggled in a 27-year-old bottle of Laphroaig disguised as Fanta, only to pour it down the toilet when soldiers began searching rooms for alcohol. They never entered mine. After the fall of the Soviet Union, I tried to track Sergei down but never found him. Before that, though, I had taken my revenge by signing him up to every unwanted mailing list I could find, encyclopaedias, dubious magazines, and more inventive subscriptions besides. It made me feel very good.And yet, if I imagine meeting him again, I always picture the same thing: Sergei standing in the doorway, holding a superb bottle of Meursault. For that, at least, I’ve always been grateful. This article was written by John Simpson, who reflects on his experiences reporting across the world, and the role alcohol has played in the art of face-to-face reconnaissance. Illustrations by Natsko Seki. Originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson reflects on reporting from conflict zones, recalling memorable bars, encounters and the role alcohol plays in the subtle art of face-to-face reconnaissance.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson on bars, encounters and how alcohol shapes reporting, trust and intelligence gathering worldwide.

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

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

It’s not every day that you get to taste wines made over half a century ago – but earlier this month I got to trace CVNE’s flagship Imperial Gran Reserva all the way back to the 1947 vintage. Victor Urrutia, the fifth generation of his family to take the helm of this legendary Rioja producer, put together a tasting of what he called “the dirty dozen” – lining up 12 vintages of Imperial. The wines were chosen to show how the wine speaks across a range of vintages – not just the most famous, but the hot, the cold, the mighty and the mediocre.  CVNE has been making wine in Rioja Alta since 1879, so – even going back to 1947 – this tasting offered just a snapshot of its history. Imperial was created in the early 20th century (1917 is the earliest vintage Urrutia himself has tasted), conceived as “super Rioja”, Urrutia explained. The idea was to make the best wine possible, regardless of its commercial potential, at a time when Rioja didn’t have the prestige of today. Around 50,000 bottles are produced, but – importantly – Imperial isn’t made in every vintage, with the quality of the fruit in some years not meeting CVNE’s stringent standards (there was no 2003, 2006 or 2013, for example, and there won’t be a 2023 either).  For Urrutia, the goal with Imperial now is to reflect each vintage, and fine-tune the wine rather than look for revolution. The early vintages are their benchmark and inspiration. Across the vintages, however, Urrutia points to a “churchy” nose – something he finds is distinctly Imperial and reminiscent of the winery.  It’s easy, perhaps, to forget how well Rioja ages – and not just over a decade or two, but over half a century. The oldest vintage in this tasting, the 1947, was undoubtedly the star – a wine that has retained its freshness, with delicate aromatics and a beautifully long, pure, resolved palate. The entire flight impressed – with the quality of Imperial shining through. Some of Rioja’s legendary vintages featured (the 1970 and 1959, which sit alongside the likes of 1982 and 1964 in the history books), but my personal favourites were the aforementioned 1947, the still compact 2004 (named Wine Spectator’s Wine of the Year in 2013), the brooding 2011 and pretty, elegant 2018.   The Imperial vineyards  The fruit for Imperial Gran Reserva comes from CVNE’s best vineyards, all over 40 years in age and almost all bush vines, yielding around 4,000kg/ha (equivalent to circa 25hl/ha or less than 1.5 tons/acre). The parcels all sit close to the Cantabrian mountains, at around 500-600 metres’ altitude, and on poor but cool soils (clay and limestone) – lending the wines great freshness, even in hot and dry years, explains longtime Technical Director María Larrea.  The village of Villalba de Rioja has been the backbone of the wine since its conception. This village was where the Real de Asúa brothers (who founded CVNE) first bought vineyards, four kilometres from Haro. The vineyards are steep and south-facing, exposed to the winds and some of the vines therefore have to be trellised (cordón Royat), but it brings acidity and freshness to the wine – something that is essential for its ageing potential. Parcels in the villages of Briones and Torremontalbo were added later, in the 1960s. Briones has richer soils, gentle slopes and a warmer climate, giving structure and body to the wine, while Torremontalbo has steep, stony slopes with calcareous soils and a significant diurnal shift, adding minerality and finesse to the blend.  The Imperial blend  The blend has shifted over the years, with the wine originally around 40% Garnacha and 40% Tempranillo, with the remaining 20% Graciano and Mazuelo. The old vineyards were field blends, with the varieties interplanted and harvested together, meaning mixed ripeness levels – something that arguably brought balance and complexity to the wines, even if some of the fruit wouldn’t have been ripe. Nowadays, each variety is planted separately at CVNE – allowing them more control and precision, harvesting each grape at the perfect moment and crafting a blend in the winery.  There was a move away from Garnacha in the 1970s, with more and more Tempranillo planted instead. Garnacha was less appreciated, seen as a workhorse, an impression that was only reenforced when lesser, high-yielding clones were planted in the 1980s and 1990s. As Larrea also noted, Garnacha is much more prone to coulure and millerandage (poor flowering and fruit-set), which may have been another factor in its decline. There was also a time, Urrutia explained, when Bordeaux was the reference point for fine wine, and they looked to imitate the region, favouring Tempranillo for its darker colour versus the more thin-skinned and therefore pale Grenache. Today, the blend is dominated by Tempranillo (with the 2017 and 2018 Imperial both 85% Tempranillo), but Grenache is undergoing a revival across Rioja and – provided they can have the right clonal material and/or older vineyards – it may contribute more to the blend in time.  The proportion of Graciano and Mazuelo has been reduced slightly, but Larrea emphasises how important the two grapes are in the face of climate change. Mazuelo (aka Carignan/Cariñena) provides structure and colour, while Graciano contributes acidity and aromatic complexity.  The winemaking  Although she joined CVNE in 1991, María Larrea took over the winemaking for Imperial with the 2005 vintage, following on from Basilio Izquierdo, who had been running things for over 30 years (since 1973). Before Izquierdo came Ezequiel García, known as “El Brujo” (“The Wizard”), winemaker for CVNE for over three decades (he returned briefly in 2014 to recreate their legendary white, Monopole).  Across the three winemakers and almost 70 years, surprisingly little has changed. The winemaking here remains extremely traditional, although technology has allowed the team to monitor the wines more closely, and for better winery hygiene, as in most regions. Fermentation remains indigenous, although it’s no longer spontaneous – the wines have been inoculated with a selected strain of their indigenous yeast since the early 2010s (with some experiments in the 1990s). Traditionally fermentation was in concrete tank, however this moved to oak in the 1990s, with one lone vintage (1994) fermented in stainless steel when the vats hadn’t arrived in time.  The wines used to be stored in barrel and only bottled when they were sold, so some older vintages of Imperial spent over a decade in barrel, while today the wine normally stays in barrel for between two and three years. (The bottling dates for each of the vintages is included below – the 1947 wasn’t bottled until 1960!) Originally the oak was all American, simply because that is what they had access to via their historic trade routes, and the barrels were kept for decades (Larrea remembers using 40-year-old barrels when she arrived in the 1990s). CVNE gradually started introducing French oak in the 1980s, with around 30% French oak used in the 1990s and around 60-70% today, with the remainder American.   The wines: tasting eight decades of CVNE Imperial  A note on the bottles themselves: older vintages are in green glass, however they moved to brown glass around 10-15 years ago.  2018 Imperial Gran Reserva: This was a real highlight of the vertical. It is very youthful still, fruit-forward, yet with amazing finesse and delicacy. The nose is precise with dainty aromatics of spice, graphite and florals alongside the crystalline fruit. The palate is juicy and lithe, pure, silken and fresh with savoury tobacco and dried red berries filling the mouth-watering finish. Beautiful and very open, even now. Fermented in oak, 14% alcohol and bottled July 2021.  2017 Imperial Gran Reserva: Frosts swept across much of Europe in late April in 2017, although the rest of the season was relatively warm, producing a tiny crop of concentrated fruit. It’s a drastically different wine to the 2018, yet still with great freshness and a floral lift alongside ripe, sweet red fruit. The palate is tight, much less approachable than the 2018, with compact tannins, a bite of crunchy acidity and a grip of firm tannins, while smoky tones that fill the finish. Decant to enjoy now, but this will be even better with a couple more years in bottle. Fermented in oak, 14% alcohol and bottled July 2020.  2015 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 2015 Imperial is dark and intense, layered with rich bramble fruit, cedar, tobacco, spice and something meaty – a hint of biltong, perhaps. The palate echoes the concentration of the nose, with chewy tannins and a line of acidity that cuts through its intensity. Powerful, almost stern, with more dried fruit coming out with air, the finish is long and savoury, with a touch of red miso. Fermented in oak, 14.5% alcohol and bottled June 2018.  2011 Imperial Gran Reserva: Another standout in the vertical, the 2011 Imperial offers a dark and pure nose, still surprisingly primary with black cherry and cassis fruit, lifted by sweet spicy perfume. The palate is silken and pure, still so youthful, flowing across the tongue, framed by firm but integrated tannins. It’s concentrated and long, with floral aromatics dancing on the juicy finish. Hard to resist with great balance. Fermented in oak, 13.5% alcohol and bottled July 2014.  2009 Imperial Gran Reserva: This is a very serious Imperial now at a lovely stage of maturity – with savoury undergrowth and spicy notes sitting alongside the vibrant dark berry fruit. The palate is intense yet with a softness to it, despite the chewy framework of tannins. It’s juicy and expressive, with smoky, spicy, tobacco notes playing on the finish, and just the slightest hint of leather starting to appear. Fermented in oak, 13.8% alcohol and bottled January 2013.  2004 Imperial Gran Reserva: From “a textbook vintage” in CVNE CEO Victor Urrutia’s words, the 2004 is shining. Pencil shavings and bacon complement ripe, dark fruit. The palate is tight and compact, yet with a juiciness that elongates the whole thing, with acidity that drives through to the long finish. The tannins are supple and soft, integrated with the fruit, but still offer a grip on the finish. Bright and effortlessly balanced. Fermented in oak, 13.8% alcohol and bottled October 2008.  1994 Imperial Gran Reserva: This is an intriguing vintage of Imperial, the only one ever to have been fermented in stainless steel as they were switching from cement to wood, but the new vats didn’t arrive in time for the vintage. It was also served at the wedding of Spain’s Crown Prince, who later became King Felipe VI. After the 2004, this marks a shift towards wines dominated by tertiary notes, although there’s still plenty of fruit here. The nose is spicy with mushroom and undergrowth alongside incense and leathery tones. The palate is laden with umami – with fresh leather and dried berry fruit – as well as dried strawberries, supple tannins and refreshing acidity. Fermented in stainless steel, 13.16% alcohol and bottled June 1998.  1980 Imperial Gran Reserva: As CEO Victor Urrutia said, 1980 was “a shit vintage” – and has always been in the shadow of 1981 and 1982. Tasting the wine today, that’s probably fair – however it’s still an impressive wine. The nose has a distinctly herbal, menthol edge to the sweet fruit – macerated strawberries, with a balsamic hint. The tannins still offer bite, while the fruit shifts to darker, more bramble tones towards the finish. Fermented in concrete, 13.4% alcohol and bottled May 1985.  1970 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 1970 vintage was hot and produced powerful wines – earning it a reputation as one of Rioja’s finest vintages. After over 50 years, the wine is intensely savoury – combining soy, marmite and barnyard tones with intense, dark fruit. With air, the wine offers layers of spice (almost reminiscent of paprika), bacon frazzles and smoked almonds, complementing the concentrated core of fruit. It’s intense yet balanced, with bright acidity that keeps everything fresh and fills the long finish. Fermented in concrete, 12.97% alcohol and bottled March 1975.  1968 Imperial Gran Reserva: From a more difficult vintage, the 1968 Imperial has a charming nose that seamlessly combines savoury and sweet – with earthy richness that sits alongside incense-inflected berry fruit and a pleasing herbal note. The palate is elegant and vibrant, with plenty of fruit still driving through its core, while more savoury, smoky notes dominate the finish. Fermented in concrete, 12.7% alcohol and bottled April 1974.  1959 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 1959 vintage is another of Rioja’s most lauded, although I suspect this bottle was not showing its best. There’s a plushness and intensity to the palate, with a sharp drive of acidity, while the nose is dominated by leather, black liquorice and barnyard. Fermented in concrete, 13% alcohol and bottled February 1968.  1947 Imperial Gran Reserva: An amazing wine to tasted, the 1947 CVNE Imperial has a reputation – one that this bottle more than lived up to. Coffee and tobacco notes with bright fruit – ripe red cherry and raspberry, as well as florals, incense, black tea and sage, alongside smoky perfume. It’s long and fresh on the palate, seamless and fully resolved but pure and persistent, with a Bovril edge to the finish which is vibrant and long. Gorgeous now – drink it while you have the chance. Fermented in concrete, 12.4% alcohol and bottled August 1960.  Explore all CVNE listings, including a range of back-vintages of Imperial Gran Reserva, or read more Editorial 

Earlier this month, CVNE hosted a once-in-a-lifetime tasting of their Imperial Gran Reserva. Sophie Thorpe explores what makes the wine so special and how it has evolved over eight decades 

Exploring CVNE’s flagship Gran Reserva Rioja, Imperial, back to 1947 at a once-in-a-lifetime tasting with CEO Victor Urrutia 

Tasting CVNE’s Imperial Gran Reserva Rioja 2018-1947 

An icon through the ages: CVNE’s Imperial Gran Reserva 

It was a small yellow aphid that disregarded national borders, wiping out the livelihood of every grape grower in its way and there was no known cure nor effective prevention in its first devastating years. Even when a cure was discovered, growers were reluctant – and often financially unable – to use it.  As a result, phylloxera vastatrix  – vastratix meaning ravager – continued to nibble on the roots of vines across western Europe, sucking the lifeblood from the vines and leaving wounds for any passing infection. By 1900, 2.5 million hectares of France's vineyard had been uprooted, causing production to slump, encouraging dodgy dealers to make fake wine, and leading to mass protests.  The story of phylloxera in Europe started as a well-intentioned gift. In 1862, an American grape grower sent some cuttings of native vines to his friend in the Rhône Valley who planted them, unaware of the damage it would inflict on his compatriots. Within a year, local growers were lamenting their sick vines. Phylloxera had wanderlust, sparing no French region; nor did it respect the country's finest terroirs or illustrious châteaux.  However, a concerted national response to the potential ruin of the country's national beverage was not forthcoming. The French government was too busy putting on International Exhibitions in Paris (1867), opening the Suez Canal (1869) and waging war on Prussia (1870-71). In 1870, the government acknowledged there might be an issue, offering a 20,000 Franc reward for a cure. Remedies were offered including burying living toads in the vineyard, adding volcanic ash from Pompeii to the soil or inviting a marching band to play to the vines. Unsurprisingly, the vines continued to die. In 1880, a solution was finally accepted: graft European varieties to the roots of American vines. However, grafting noble French varieties - vitis vinifera - to the roots of these lowly American varieties seemed like sacrilege to many growers. It was thought they would affect the nobility of their precious wines. There was also the issue of cost: uprooting your vineyard, replanting and then having to wait between three and five years for a crop did not feed a family and the concept of state aid was still a long way off.  As a result, many tried to limp on for as long as possible, injecting carbon bisulphide, an expensive and toxic solvent used to vulcanise rubber, into the soil to stave off the inevitable.  The producers in the south of France were the first to be hit in the 1860s and they replanted with high-yielding hybrids. By the turn of the century, the Languedoc was producing more wine than ever before. However, the region's unscrupulous merchants made up for the initial shortfall at peak phylloxera by bulking out grape juice with sugar and water while others made wines from raisins. These practices continued despite the replanted vineyards returning to full production, causing a huge oversupply and depressing prices.  Urged on by a growing labour movement, hundreds of thousands of people took to the streets in 1907 to call for change. The Champagne Riots of 1911 The Champenois followed suit, rioting in the streets in 1911 and the root of their troubles also lay with phylloxera.  In 1892, the Marne was invaded by its first phylloxera aphid and, by 1910, 40% of the region had been affected. But this was no time for production to fall: Champagne sales were booming and to make up for the shortfall, dodgy merchants (and some of the seemingly reputable houses) brought in wines from the Loire and the south of France by the train-load. The wines were made sparkling in their cellars and the bottles emerged, as if by magic, as Champagne. Supply and demand economics suggested that the growers should have been earning more for their fruit as phylloxera affected supply and sales boomed, but fake Champagne kept prices low. Having borne the cost of replanting their vineyards, this was not how growers imagined they would be rewarded and protests ensued.  While most vineyards in Champagne and beyond are now planted on American rootstocks, there are some vines and vineyard owners that play wine roulette and grow vitis vinifera on their own roots. For example, three plots belonging to Bollinger were planted in 1960 in the traditional pre-phylloxera way. One has succumbed to the vine louse but the remaining two parcels are the source of Vieilles Vignes Françaises, a rare Pinot Noir-based Champagne that provides a taste of a bygone era.  We asked Denis Bunner, Bollinger’s Deputy Cellar Master, about the Aÿ-based Champagne House's rarest wine, Vieilles Vignes Françaises, which is produced on its own roots.  Why did Bollinger begin producing Vieilles Vignes Françaises in 1969?  An English journalist Cyril Ray proposed the initiative to Madame Bollinger following a visit in 1967 and this inspired Madame Bollinger to create a wine from the precious vines to commemorate her 70th birthday, which saw the first bottle produced in 1969. The wine was launched in 1974. Are the vines pre-phylloxera? If so, they must be more than a century old. No, the current plots in Aÿ were planted in the 1960s but it is impossible to give an age to the vines due to the perpetual renewal and the way the root system grow [the system is called provignage, which is like vine fostering when there is an empty space to fill. Take a cane from one vine, train it down into the soil and partially bury it with the end sticking out until it forms a separate vine. This is also done in the Nacional vineyard at Quinta do Noval]. There were three plots that weren't grafted but there are now only two. What happened? third plot succumb to phylloxera?  The third plot in Croix Rouge de Bouzy was attacked by phylloxera at the end of the 1990s – the vineyard didn't have protective walls around it. The last vintage was 2004 as we had to uproot it when it fell prey to the infestation. How many acres do the two remaining plots cover?  The Clos Saint-Jacques (Aÿ) covers just over half an acre while the Clos des Chaudes-Terres, which lies within the boundaries of Bollinger’s own lands, covers a little over a third of an acre. In total, they represent 0.36 hectares. Is there anything special about the soil of these two plots that means it resists phylloxera?  The soil is not remarkably different from that in the rest of Aÿ and as per the rest of Champagne it features chalk. Is this special cuvee made every year?  No. Only in declared vintages. What is the average production of Vieilles Vignes Françaises?  This varies by vintage, but falls within the range of 2,000 to 3,000 bottles. A total of 2,420 numbered bottles of the 2009 Vieilles Vignes Françaises vintage were produced. Read more Editorial

Following the release of Bollinger’s latest vintage of Vieilles Vignes Françaises, we talk to Denis Bunner, Bollinger’s Deputy Cellar Master about the Aÿ-based Champagne house's rarest wine, as well as delving into the archives to explore the history of the fatal vine louse.

Phylloxera and Bollinger’s Vieilles Vignes Françaises on the wine grown from vines planted on its own roots and thus vulnerable to attack by the louse.

Phylloxera and winemaking

Phylloxera: a vine pandemic

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

The most famous vineyard in Argentina is named after Dr Adrianna Catena, who is the youngest daughter of pioneering vigneron Nicolás Catena Zapata. As well as her viticultural endeavours at Catena Zapata and her partnership with Alejandro Vigil as co-founder of the cult Argentine winery El Enemigo, she is a practicing historian.  Her area of interest is the 15th and 16th century Americas – a time when wine (and the vine) were first introduced to the continent following the Spanish conquest. The pivotal role of wine in Catholic ritual, and the dangers associated with drinking fresh water, she believes, would shape the development of wine production in the Americas. For Catena, the intimate relationship between wine and water continues to play a central role in shaping Mendoza’s social landscape.  The history of water and wine in South America is a fascinating topic for Catena. Although her PhD thesis focused on the trade in indigo dye from the Americas to Europe, her attachment to wine – as well as the very real concerns of water scarcity in Mendoza – are subjects important to her as a historian and as a vigneron. Through the Catena Institute of Wine (CIW), the Catena Zapata winery has pioneered research in viticulture across a broad rand of topics. It includes ground-breaking work on terroir, ageability, and soil biodiversity, as well as in depth studies on extreme elevation vine growing in a context of changing climatic conditions – but some of their most pressing work centres around water preservation.  “Water preservation is one of our most important areas of research today,” says Catena. “Organic farming is easier in the very dry climate of Mendoza, than in Bordeaux, where higher rainfall and relative humidity mean vineyards will be more susceptible to fungal diseases – for us, when it comes to a sustainable future and regenerative farming, water preservation is key.” Catena Zapata’s head viticulturalist Luis Reginato is nicknamed “the water guy” at Catena – such is his obsession.  “He’s always trialing new, experimental ways to save water.” But she notes, the region has a long successful history of water management for Reginato to tap into. “The irrigation systems developed by the native Huarpe people before the arrival of Europeans were key to successful agriculture in the region, and these systems are still in use today,” says Catena.  For centuries, irrigation channels and aqueducts have diverted water from the Andes mountains to terrace lower Andes farmlands, bringing fresh drinking water to the cities. The Incas, Catena says, whose power extended briefly to this region, were quite unique among early modern empires in the quality of their nutrition and a notable absence of famine – made possible by terraced agriculture on the Andean slopes and complex irrigation systems.  While advanced water networks had been essential to pre-Hispanic and later colonial agriculture, Europeans treated drinking water with caution. “Up until the last century, it was a common belief that water, especially in exotic or tropical regions, could be bad for your health,” says Catena. “Contaminated water could (and can still) kill you and was considered extremely dangerous.” Wine in many parts of Europe (and the Americas, following the Spanish conquest) along with ales and beer, was often considered a safer option. Where they felt there was no access to clean water, wine became an essential part of the diet.  Wine was a key European import in the early days of the Spanish conquest, notes Catena. And for the Spaniards, it was not without its health benefits. “During this period, medicine was humoral, people believed everything you ingested would affect your mood, health, and disposition,” she explains. “In one claim from the time, ‘vino‘ (wine) came from the word ’vena‘ (vein) – it was considered nourishing, and closely resembles blood and was associated with this. Some believed it fortified the veins.”  But, as Catena explains, wine was more than a health benefit for the conquistador. “Wine was also an essential symbol of Christianity and Christianity was a moving force in the Spanish conquest.” The conquest of Mexico would roughly coincide with the start of Luther’s Reformation.  The Spanish, for their part, wanted to secure a triumph for Catholicism, and in the inhabitants of the new world, saw millions of souls to fill their ranks against the Protestants. “It was the conquistador’s mission,” she says. “Behind the conquest was a big effort to convert the native population.” Catena explains how wine – as with wheat – was a highly symbolic food for Christianity, representing the blood of Christ.  “If you are trying to convert an entire native population to Catholicism, rituals will be fundamental,” she says. Wine had always held a central role in religious ritual and was key to the religious side of the Conquest. Conquistadors, she explains, had to build a church on their land after being awarded territory by the Crown for their service – and they were also made responsible for converting the indigenous population. “In this quest, as one historian put it, to advance the religious and territorial conquest – the two basic foods the Spanish needed were wheat and wine.” Initially, all wine was imported from Europe, but vines were swiftly introduced and acclimated. By the 1570s vineyards had been planted all over South America, albeit under strict regulations. Priests, for example, were allowed to plant vineyards – but there was a lot of legislation over who could and couldn’t grow grapes. By the 1570s vineyards had been planted all over the Americas.  For health, religious and cultural reasons, everyone drank wine in 16th and 17th century South America – it was part of the diet, explains Catena. But as the influence of humoral medicine waned following the Enlightenment – and better sanitation practices were discovered – the perceived symbolic benefits of wine declined. As the population grew exponentially in the 19th century, so did wine production in Argentina. Italian and Spanish immigrants arrived on the continent, leaving behind their famine-stricken homelands. “Wine consumption reached extraordinary levels,” says Catena, “particularly with the development of the railways.” This new technology enabled the speedy, efficient transportation of wine from producing regions to the Argentine capital of Buenos Aires. Nicola Catena was one such immigrant, who arrived in Mendoza in 1898 at the age of 17, planting his first vineyard in 1902. A native of Le Marche, from a family of vinegrowers, it was not so surprising that Catena went into wine production.  While Mendoza is much like a desert with very little rainfall (between 200 and 400 mm per year), the irrigation channels developed by the indigenous Huarpe people (a nation periodically under Inca rule), were used to divert snow melt from the Andes, enabling farmers to flood farmland when required, making viticulture possible. By the time Nicola’s son Domingo Catena took over, the family had become renowned winemakers in Mendoza. In more modern times, wine and water’s relationship has changed considerably. Wine in many instances has become a luxury and no longer an essential part of the diet – although Catena says that culturally wine remains a common sight at every meal in Argentina.  Under the guardianship of Nicolás Catena and now his daughter Laura, Catena Zapata has become among a growing number of quality-led producers in Mendoza whose wines compete with the finest in the world. Their top wines – Mundus Bacillus Terrae and Nicolás Catena – led the charge in putting Mendoza on the fine wine map. Water too is no longer viewed with as much caution, but nor is it taken for granted. It barely rains at all in Mendoza – with the region effectively a high-altitude desert. Without snowmelt from the mountains, agriculture here would be impossible, but glacial reserves in Argentina are decreasing. With climate change, water in these parts will no longer be simply available at the turn of a tap. “The preservation of water has become an important concern of winemaking in Mendoza. This is one of the most urgent questions for our region today,” says Catena. Ongoing research at Catena includes many water-saving experiments. “More than a decade ago we transitioned all our vineyards from the traditional, but wasteful system of flood irrigation, to drip irrigation. Since then, we’ve created reservoirs to capture rainwater, and set up water stations to measure and restrict irrigation to the bare minimum in our family vineyards.” For Catena, “these small changes can have a large and lasting impact.” The goal at Catena is to manage a regenerative and sustainable agricultural cycle. Catena notes how the Incas were able to transform their environment without causing irreparable damage to it. “We can inhabit this earth without being parasitical,” she says. As members of a larger viticultural community, Catena hopes to share the lessons it has learned from its research, to enable this region that has been shaped by water and wine to continue making high-quality wine centuries from now. Optimistically she says, “We believe we are at a tipping point, and the mindset is gathering momentum here more than ever before.” Since wine was introduced to the continent in the 16th century, there have been huge cultural changes. But the irrigation systems that allowed those first vines to grow remain in use, feeding the countless vineyards, often centuries old. Without water, there will be no wine. With Argentinian wine so popular around the world today, a lot rides on Catena Zapata’s research. The hope is that they can lead the charge, shaping a bright future for this region. Browse all listings from Catena Zapata and El Enemigo or read more Editorial 

Dr Adrianna Catena – of Catena Zapata and El Enemigo – is not just a winemaker, but a practicing historian. We sat down with her to talk about how wine shaped South America’s social landscape and how water conservation and sustainable irrigation practices will secure its future.

Dr Adrianna Catena from Catena Zapata and El Enemigo on the historical importance of water and wine in the Americas.

Talking to historian and vigneron Adrianna Catena

How water and wine shaped a civilisation: Adrianna Catena

Olivier Humbrecht was in London earlier this year giving a masterclass on single-vineyard Pinot Gris from Alsace. His motivation and his love for dry Pinot Gris evolves around the varietal being the greatest transmitter of terroir, much more so than its more famous sibling Riesling whose natural aromatics can conceal its terroir blueprint. Of course that was just the starting point of the masterclass and it quickly evolved into a much more in-depth conversation on the virtues of singular plots and the underpinning concepts of fine wine. We caught up with him to get further insight into his pioneering approach in viticulture which is being adopted by some of the finest wine producers in the world. The changing fortunes of Pinot Gris Humbrecht is a strong believer in the potential of Pinot Gris, a varietal that has ebbed and flowed in popularity through the last century. It is a varietal that due to its rather neutral primary attributes means it is perhaps more than any other grape, at the throes of its maker.  Styles vary greatly from the high-yielding neutral, phenolic, early picked and refreshing Pinot Grigio synonymous with northern Italy. At its worst, the variety produces a wine of almost no character and no sense of place. At its best, the dry, vibrant Pinot Grigio from Alto Adige can be fantastically intense, mineral and refreshing, whilst remaining fairly neutral on the palate. Pinot Grigio Romato styles in Friuli (a skin contact rose style) offer more flavor definition and
richness whilst at the same time being distinctly phenolic with vibrant acidity and a bitter bite keeping the wine refreshing and uniquely Italian in character.  The Pinot Gris of Alsace is typically later picked and completely different to the Italian style in its flavor profile, taking on a distinct honeysuckle, musk, smoky, toasty quality. Even within Alsace, this varietal has many faces. In the 1960s Olivier reminds us that Pinot Gris from Alsace was the most popular and most expensive wine in the region, but also the rarest and typically very sweet, as it is prone to noble rot resulting in intensely rich, opulent wines. In 1990 just 2% of the vineyards in Alsace were planted with Pinot Gris, today it is up to 15%. But Pinot Gris is not an easy grape to get right and whilst the early picked, neutral style of Northern Italy can crop at high levels with little issue, to make Pinot Gris with more aromatic character is much more difficult to get right and therefore becomes a much less reliable crop and accounts for the small amounts grown in Alsace. It is a varietal very prone to rot due to its thin skin. In ideal conditions, this makes it ideal for noble rot but in less than perfect conditions grey rot is more common making the grapes not suitable for fine wine. The rot will often result in aborted fermentation.  The varietal is also very quick to ripen. If not picked in a very small picking window, the alcohols could shoot up too high making a healthy fermentation very difficult and, more often than not, leading to high levels of residual sugar in the wine, whether you want it or not. Olivier outlines that just taking a weekend off during harvest could amount to a potential 1.5% abv increase when returning to the vines on Monday morning. In under a week, the potential alcohol could have gone up by 3% abv.  Picking the wines too early also has its problems. All the flavor and aromas in the varietal develop at the final stages of ripening, picking early will produce wines with little complexity and character. This tricky little grape is no doubt the reason why so little was planted in the region despite the popularity of the top Pinot Gris sweet wines. The recent increase in plantings in Alsace however has not been brilliantly successful. For Olivier too much Pinot Gris has been planted in inadequate sites and using higher yielding commercial clones. For Olivier, top Pinot Gris from Alsace must come from the traditional petit grains clone that is naturally low-yielding. Olivier likes each vine to produce just 2 clusters producing just 25-30 hectolitres per hectare. These cropping levels are necessary to produce fine wine examples from the grape. Olivier’s interest in Pinot Gris is down to its relatively neutral character making it a great transmitter of terroir, more so than Riesling whose natural aromatic presence can conceal terroir characters. Fairly neutral flavour characters also mean it remains very much a winemaker’s wine, as the vigneron can determine the style of the wine with lees work, oak maturation, and the retention of malolactic fermentation, providing the grapes come in clean, free of rot. Olivier believes élevage on full lees makes a very important difference to the flavor of the wine. The lees nourish the wine through ageing, producing a much more complex
flavour profile. It brings a smokiness and toasty character to the wine as well as a more reductive “mineral” character. Global warming It is rare to hear a vigneron say that global warming has improved the quality of their
wines, but Olivier honestly states that, for the moment, global warming has benefited his wines. What it has done is bring flowering forward, possibly up to three weeks earlier which shunts all the growing season forward, this means the all-important veraison period (sugar concentration in the grapes) is beginning to happen three weeks earlier.  Rather than waiting for grapes to ripen in September as the days are getting shorter and the weather much less reliable, veraison is now happening at the height of the summer enabling the wines to reach optimum ripeness quicker preventing the onset of rot – which in poorer weather becomes a lot more common.  Biodynamic since 1998, Olivier has seen a really positive effect in the vineyard. The grapes are able to ripen faster, reaching physiological ripeness quicker, which enables Olivier to make dry Pinot Gris packed with flavor. This, he believes, is because chemical applications shock the vines, causing them to shut down for a number of days following the application. If you continue to spray chemical applications throughout the growing season, each time this happens the vine shuts down and you lose valuable days of ripening.  Under biodynamic principles, the vines don’t go through these shock / shutting-down
phases. This allows Olivier to pick earlier and he is the first to harvest the Pinot Gris compared to his neighbours. This he believes is largely due to his grapes ripening faster, due to his viticultural techniques.  It means he can get his wines to reach aromatic complexity whilst still being able to bring them in early enough free of rot and therefore enabling a fermentation to dryness. The reason for Olivier's interest in producing dry styles of Pinot Gris is so he can show off the terroir characteristics of each of his sites without being concealed by sweetness. Tasting the different vineyards shows just how different each of the sites is and only further promotes Pinot Gris as the ultimate transmitter of terroir. A pioneer of modern-day viticulture Speaking with top viticulturalists all over the world, you realise a huge amount of their knowledge stems from Olivier Humbrecht, whose understanding of managing vine growth originated from a university lecture he attended in the 1980s, given not by a viticulturist, but a plant physiologist.  From this lecture, Olivier understood that modern-day hedging techniques in the vineyard were really detrimental to fruit production. Olivier explains the domesticated vine goes through two very different stages in its growth period. Stage one is the phase of cellular multiplication i.e. the growth of the vine – flowering, budding, leaf production etc. Stage two is the nourishment phase in which the vine stops growing and instead starts to nourish the pips in the grapes, to promote future cellular growth when the seeds are dispersed.  The problem with modern hedging techniques is that it disturbs stage one when the vine is
on the verge of moving to stage two, therefore encouraging the vine to carry out stage one and two at the same time, meaning the grape isn’t getting full nourishment at the period of veraison as some of the vine’s energy is going into vine growth. The key for Olivier is to get stage two to follow on from stage one rather than the vines trying to do both at the same time. Preventing canopy growth, however, requires a lot more manual work. Olivier states it
requires 20 men to tie up the vines manually compared to one tractor hedging the vines. One possible solution could be to hedge the vines earlier in the growth phase so as not to disrupt the vine later in the season switching from stage 1 to stage 2 but Olivier explains this is not a good approach. Tartaric acid is key to any white wine, and it is the necessary backbone to any wine.  Tartaric acid is produced by the leaves. Olivier emphasizes that many people wrongly
think leaves only create sugar through photosynthesis, but they are necessary for producing a whole array of essential nutrients, hormones and the all-important production of tartaric acid. The secret lies in extended canopy growth. I said to Olivier this sounds exactly what Lalou
Bize Leroy does in Burgundy and he admits that he visited her years ago and told her his ideas on canopy management and she clearly took his advice. Whilst it is incredibly high maintenance and an expensive operation, two of the world’s leading winemakers Humbrecht and Leroy are advocates of the system and that should be enough for any vigneron to at least consider the technique, despite the additional costs it entails.  The single vineyards Rotenburg The Rotenburg vineyard is a cooler north-facing slope facing the Vogues mountains. Made up of red marl on a limestone bedrock with very shallow brick colour soil (containing high iron content). All this amounts to slower ripening, naturally lower vigour and tiny yields. Olivier typically crops at 25 hectolitres per hectare. Olivier states what is great about this vineyard when made in the dry style, the effect of the limestone really comes through on the palate. Tasting through the 2017, ’16 and ’13 the wines share a wonderful aromatic complexity.
Easily the most floral and perfumed of the three vineyards. There is a wonderful chalky minerality to the wine, almost top quality Chablis but with a softer texture and more perfumed. With age, the aromas and flavours only further develop whilst retaining a wonderful intensity. The wine remains very clean despite its age, showing very little tertiary
development just lovely orange rind and honeysuckle notes. The chalky limestone
minerality brings sharp focus and intensity to the finish. Clos Windsbuhl The first vintage for Zind Humbrecht on this site was the 1988 vintage. Another limestone/
clay site overlooking the church of Sainte Hune (famous for the Trimbach’s Clos Sainte Hune cuvee). Facing south, south-east with a steep slope between 15 – 40% this is a high altitude site at 350 metres. A 6.5 hectares site planted mostly to Pinot Gris. Due to the
altitude and soil the grapes ripens very slowly, often on the precipice of reaching ripeness before the wine gets affected by noble rot.  Tasting through the ’17, ’16 and ’13 what is immediate in the comparison is how the wine
develops with age. At just three years of age, the wine remains compact, at seven years of age it is incredibly complex on the palate. The primary notes have retained their zesty vivacity but the flavours become broad from russet apple, manuka honey and sultanas and a wonderful salinity and stony minerality on the finish. The wine becomes more and more focused on the finish. Clearly, the wine is affected by vintage too. The ’16 is a more difficult vintage making the wine a lot less intense than the ’17 and the ’13 but throughout the lineup, the salinity and stony minerality comes through on the palate – a distinct characteristic
of the limestone soil. Rangen de Thann Unlike Rotenburg and Clos Windsbuhl, Rangen de Thann is made up of volcanic soil, very
dark basalt rock, rich in magnesium and potassium and low in calcium so lower acidity, higher pH. The slope is the steepest in Alsace with a 41-degree slope. The vineyard has an incredibly high vine density at 10,000 vines per hectare. It is in fact one of the warmer regions of Alsace therefore you would expect it to be one of the first to ripen, but the cold wind that flows through the valley slows the ripening making it the last vineyard Oliver harvests. This is typically the lowest-yielding site at Zind Humbrecht at 20 – 30 hectolitres per hectare. The volcanic soil offers a completely different blueprint to the wine. Texturally the wine is much more oily and rich. The flavours are more pumice stone, peppery, matcha tea and then this distinct Brazil nut flavor. There are no tropical notes at all in its youth and very much more savoury in style. With age the ’13 vintage shows more tropical notes, the texture becomes unctuous in its oiliness, it feels like there is sweetness despite being a dry wine. These wines lack the vibrancy from the limestone but offer more richness, texture and darker fruit and savoury flavour profile. Explore more Editorial

Meeting with Olivier Humbrecht is always an insightful experience. Not only is he incredibly
erudite in his approach to viticulture and winemaking but he has the rare talent of being able to communicate fairly complex ideas around the subject in a very clear and digestible manner. 

An insight into Olivier Humbrecht's pioneering biodynamic approach to viticulture that is now widely adopted by many of the world's fine wine producers 

Olivier Humbrecht, a genius of wine

Olivier Humbrecht: A genius of wine

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