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

Group CEO Patrick O’Connor reflects on Bordeaux 2025: a hot, dry and early vintage defined by small yields, precise viticulture, restrained winemaking and a new wave of estates delivering wines of real distinction.

Patrick O’Connor, Group CEO, explores Bordeaux 2025: a hot, dry, early vintage shaped by precision, small yields and standout wines.

Bordeaux 2025 en primeur: vintage overview      

Bordeaux 2025: vintage overview               

We have unearthed an absolute gem in the guise of Rosso della Centa, a 100% Merlot wine grown on just one hectare of a distinct marl clay hillside in Friuli, Italy. The wine is the creation of one of Italy’s top winemakers Nicola Manferrari who first produced the wine in 1985 and has gone on to release it only in top vintages, producing just 1200 bottles per vintage. 

As we have managed to source a small parcel of Rosso della Centa 2010, we explore the history of this incredible and rare wine.  Friuli ranks highly among Italy’s finest regions for white wine production, producing some of the most vibrant, mineral, saline whites on the planet. The global reputation of the top wines of Friuli continues to grow, gaining fans throughout the world and firmly positioning it on the global fine wine map.   Whilst more famous for their white wines, top grower Nicola Manferrari has a very special one-hectare plot dedicated to red wine. On taking over the family vineyards in 1982, Nicola was not happy with the quality of wine coming from this Merlot site. So much so he took to studying French and French winemaking to learn the secrets of Bordeaux and then apply these techniques to his own wine, to get the best out of this unique site. He states that François Champagnol’s Elements de physiologie de la vigne was one of the most intellectually stimulating reads of his life. Nicola Manferrari is one of Friuli’s original trailblazers. Along with Mario Schiopetto, Josko Gravner and Silvio Jermann, Manferrari was just one of a handful of producers in the 1980s who had the vision and courage to follow his convictions.

He experimented with the 1982,’83 and '84 vintages before he was happy with the techniques he had adopted and, matched with the perfect weather, managed to produce something exceptional, releasing the inaugural Rosso della Centa in the 1985 vintage. Nicola was confident that he could create the first world-class red wine from the region and was not swayed by his neighbouring premium sites opting to plant Cabernet Sauvignon rather than Merlot. But for Nicola he believed the Merlot was perfect for the clay and collio marl soils in which Cabernet Sauvignon struggled.   The ’85 was a critical success, described by the critics as the "First Great Friuli Red". Other greats of the region include Enzo Pontoni of Miani fame and Christian Patat from Ronco del Gnemiz have followed in his footsteps making incredible Merlots from the Friuli region.
Nicola Manferrari continued to improve the wine buoyed by its critical acclaim, further reducing the yield, increasing the vine density (more than 7000 hectares per hectare), introducing shorter pruning techniques, using no fertiliser and complete grassing in the vineyards to improve the soil health. The wine is fermented in small 12 hl wooden vats and are matured in small oak barriques for four years. Only the finest vintages are released as Rosso della Centa. 
In the summer of last year Monica Larner (Wine Advocate) had the opportunity to taste some more recent vintages of Rosso della Centa. “Looking over my scores, I can't help but notice how consistent they are across vintages and varieties. Results like these are hard to achieve, but not at Borgo del Tiglio. She goes on to describe the ’06 as “musical and operatic in character… there is complete harmony and silkiness here in another gem from Borgo del Tiglio’s cellar”.

"Nicola Manferrari and his family have been working tirelessly since the 1982 vintage to become a benchmark for winemaking in Friuli Venezia Giulia." Monica Larner, Wine Advocate 

Larner did not have the opportunity to taste the mythical 2010 but we pulled a cork on it this week to find out how the wine has developed and we were blown away by the quality. This is a superb rendition retaining everything that is great about Italian wine – the acidity, freshness, dried floral notes and herbal spice along with all the greatest assets of fine Merlot – the rich expansive multi-layered tannins that provide tremendous depth on the palate and the rich mid-palate juiciness full of black fruits and now with age a beguiling leather and earthy savoury notes. The wine has tremendous energy whilst showing handsome tertiary development and to retain so much acidity in a grape that often lacks it underscores just how fantastic this wine is. 

Nicola believes this steep southwest slope of marl and sandstone is perfectly adapted for his old vine Merlot providing a marked elegance and complexity in his Rosso della Centa. The 2010 certainly reflects this and with only 1200 bottles produced virtually impossible to find. This is a unique parcel unlikely to be seen again and is entering into a beautiful drinking window. This wine is a piece of Italian winemaking history and one for any afficionado not to miss. 

It is always difficult to put fine wine into words but Nicola Manferrari’s philosophy outlined on his website gives possibly the greatest insight into this pioneering spirit of Friuli:
“I believe that in effect, the path I have followed has left its mark on the character of my wines which have, according to many, their own maker’s trademark. Over the last twenty years, I have transformed, studied and debunked certain common beliefs and have also overcome - while allowing plenty of room for the sacrilegious power of empirical observation – some of my own personal taboos. I have observed, researched and innovated in the face of hypocrisy and prejudice. 

"Often, however, while doing this I have unwittingly renewed ties with ways of the past which were interrupted by a modernity which had lost all sense and memory. It was probably my unorthodox approach to the world of wine that has guided my choices, meaning this also includes my checkered educational history; I was at the same time a child of scientific teachings and an orphan of technology. This has taught me to take absolutely nothing for granted, and the words of Galileo, which accompany me wherever I go, have taught me to be humble when facing all situations, and to be dignified when dealing with people.” 

Explore more Editorial

Whilst more famous for their white wines, one of Friuli's top growers, Nicola Manferrari, has a very special one-hectare plot dedicated to an incredible and rare world-class Merlot, Rosso della Centa Friuli 

We explore the history of the incredible and rare world-class Merlot Rosso della Centa Friuli 

Rosso della Centa, the first great Friuli red

Rosso della Centa: The first great Friuli red

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  

The beauty of Bordeaux wines is that each vintage follows the next, yet no two are ever alike. Reading back over my notes on the 2025 vintage, one thing becomes clear: one could almost write the exact opposite of 2024. In 2024, excessive rainfall during ripening forced some châteaux to delay their harvests with great care. In 2025, the situation was reversed: in the vineyards, one could almost imagine rain dances, pleading with Mother Nature to water the parched soils. Drought defines the vintage. Opposite in their development, the two vintages nevertheless converge on one point: volume. 2025 stands as the smallest vintage since 1991 – a statement that already applied to 2024. In Bordeaux, a pressing question now arises: can great, even very great vintages – as 2025 appears to be – still coexist with generous yields, as in 2016? Let us remain optimistic. 2025 is a beautiful vintage, which comes as a relief for the entire industry. Yet a deeper question lingers: does “normal” still exist in viticulture in an era of climate disruption? What was the biggest challenge for winegrowers in 2025? Eric Boissenot: Overall, the year was fairly easy from a vineyard perspective: no major disease pressure, low mildew risk, and the vines coped well with the drought—likely even better than in 2022. Thomas Duclos: Most likely, the biggest challenge was staying calm and level-headed towards the end of the growing cycle, which saw a heatwave around mid-August followed by rainfall in early September. Julien Viaud: With hindsight, this vintage was much easier than others. Spring and summer conditions were generally favourable. The greater challenge came in the cellar, where it was essential to manage the richness of the material. The fruit was abundant and concentrated, and the winemaker’s role was to be precise, measured, and restrained in order to express the very best the grapes had to offer. Could you share a few thoughts on the 2025 yields? Eric Boissenot: Yields were low, even very low. This was due, on the one hand, to limited floral initiation (resulting in fewer bunches), and on the other hand to small berry size at harvest (across all grape varieties), caused by the low rainfall throughout the vintage. Thomas Duclos: The 2025 vintage was affected by a low number of bunches—a direct consequence of the 2024 conditions (poor floral induction) combined with a dry growing season. The result is therefore low yields. Julien Viaud: Yields in 2025 were not high, mainly for physiological reasons. The issue is that both the size and number of bunches—determined the previous year within the buds—were limited from the outset. The potential was therefore already constrained. How would you describe the style of the 2025 vintage? Eric Boissenot: First of all, it is a very early vintage, shaped by a warm and dry climate. It then benefited from rainfall in late August and early September, which helped the vines manage water stress. As a result, alcohol levels remain moderate (around 13–13.5% vol) for a warm year. While it shows a warm and very ripe character, it also retains a classic, distinctly Bordeaux style that is both balanced and highly drinkable. Thomas Duclos: 2025 is a Bordeaux vintage shaped by climate change. Julien Viaud: It is a sunny vintage, but not “solar” in the sense that it allowed for ripe grapes full of fruit expression, without excessive sugar (and therefore alcohol), and without a loss of acidity (and thus freshness). It is an approachable, generous, and charming vintage, with wines bursting with aromas and delivering real pleasure. If you had to sum up 2025 in one word or a short phrase, what would you choose? Eric Boissenot: High density Thomas Duclos: Futuristic Julien Viaud: Intense and fast-paced Conclusions Reds: Well-balanced wines, showing fine concentration and the freshness so characteristic of Bordeaux—perhaps, as Julien Viaud suggests, a style the world might envy. They retain a solid yet never heavy tannic structure, resulting in wines that are both vibrant and structured. A beautiful vintage, even exceptional in certain cases. Whites: The first grapes arrived at the cellar as early as August 11. The wines are highly expressive, with good mid-palate weight and a certain creaminess. They also stand out for their freshness, which brings energy and lift. Sweet wines: When the rains came in late August / early September, the grapes were in excellent health, allowing Botrytis cinerea to develop evenly. The style is rather opulent, with lovely complexity. Bordeaux 2025 overview: A historically low-yield vintage, the smallest since 1991. A prolonged heatwave period, exceeding those of 2003 and 2022. Marked drought throughout the summer, enhancing grape concentration. Decisive rainfall at the end of August / beginning of September, helping to balance ripeness. Exceptionally early harvest, among the earliest ever recorded. Moderate alcohol levels, thanks to day/night temperature variation and late August / early September rainfall. Low pH levels, bringing freshness and tension to the wines. An extreme vintage in climate, yet precise and balanced in the glass. Rarity, freshness, and control: 2025 ticks all the boxes of a great modern Bordeaux. About Inside La Place Inside La Place is a specialist newsletter published by Roland Coiffe & Associés, offering expert commentary, vintage analysis and insider perspectives from across the Place de Bordeaux. Bordeaux 2025 Each spring, the Bordeaux En Primeur campaign gives collectors the opportunity to secure the new vintage before bottling – follow Bordeaux 2025 with FINE+RARE as our team travels to Bordeaux next week, sharing insights, producer highlights and release alerts. Explore now.

Written by Gerda Beziade of négociant Roland Coiffe & Associés, this Inside La Place piece explores the Bordeaux 2025 vintage – one of the smallest in decades – combining her analysis with insights from leading oenologists Eric Boissenot, Thomas Duclos and Julien Viaud.

Gerda Beziade explores Bordeaux 2025, with insights from leading oenologists on style, yields and quality.

Inside La Place: Bordeaux 2025 Vintage Insights 

Inside La Place: Bordeaux 2025

Christian Patat is one of Italy’s busiest and most successful vignerons working with his wife at top Friuli estate, Ronco del Gnemiz, as well as working with Enzo Pontoni, vigneron extraordinaire, at the legendary Miani estate. He also works as a consultant winemaker for many properties producing wines from all over Italy. Most recently he has been involved in an old vine project with long-term friend and fellow Friulian, Marco Simonit – famed for his work protecting old vines all over the world most particularly at the legendary estates of Yquem, Leroy and Louis Roederer.

We caught up with Christian to talk more about L’Età Più Bella (With Age Comes Beauty), which is set to release its first collection of wines from top sites in Friuli next month. His insight into the Friuli region is a great starting point to understanding Italy’s mecca for white wine.
 Can you describe what you think is so special about the Friuli region for wine production?  "Friuli is one of the most complex scenarios in the wine world given the unheard of combination of grape varietals, soil identities and climatic challenges. I’ll try to explain from the inside. The wide number of varietals is provided by different waves of invasion, such as
the French (at the time of Napoleon) and the Austrians (in the same period of Napoleon
but they stayed for much longer); these invasions explain why we have so many 
Bordeaux varietals (Merlot, Cab Franc, Cab Sauvignon, Carmenere) and others of
French origin such as Pinot Blanc, Pinot Gris, Chardonnay and Sauvignon. "The arrival of these 'imported' wines did not cancel out the presence of local varietals such as Ribolla Gialla, Refosco, Schioppettino, Pignolo and Tocai Friulano. The Austrians also did their part leaving some Traminer and Riesling so that the picture is composed as it is today.  "Until the ‘60s, Friuli was a poor region and the vineyards were in the hands of small growers selling locally and with no real commercial plan and having the ability to offer a wide range of wines gave more options to sell to occasional customers. For this reason, the Friulians never gave up any of these varietals and when the DOC was finally in place they were all included.  "In terms of soils there is a significant difference between the flat appellations (Grave del Friuli, Isonzo, Aquileia) and the hillside appellations (Collio, Friuli Colli Orientali, Carso). The flat area is basically made of gravelly soils, the hillside is basically marl (locally called PONCA and geologically called FLYSH), obtained by the sea pushing in the direction of the mountains and creating slates of chalk, limestone and clay, all of which are agglomerated in various percentages and sometimes within the same vineyard, providing an incredibly complex subsoil.  "This complexity is augmented by the fragility of the structure which is very prone to erosion and obliges the growers to cultivate on terraces in order to minimize the impact of the water. This way of growing the plants generates very high costs and consequently low yields given the limited density of plantation (i.e. the average density on a modern planting in hillside Friuli can reach about 6.500 plants/ha which is much less than what can be achieved in Burgundy with an average of 10.000 plants/ha), and makes virtually impossible machine harvesting and other mechanical intervention.  "To complicate this picture, Friuli has the highest amount of rain in Italy which means that growing grapes can be a real challenge, but the ponca soil has a high degree of draining, so to avoid issues and diseases caused by excessive water close to the roots. All this being said, the real peculiarity comes from the soil itself which can be a magical balance of minerally driven characters, with enough structure to provide full-bodied wines and that’s the
reason why white and red varietals are grown in the same place." What varieties do you think perform the best in Friuli and why?  "You may have different answers if you ask different growers but personally I think that among white wines I would go for Friulano (Tocai) because it expresses very well the different sites and shows better than any other varietal the balance of richness and saltiness.  "Apart from Friulano I would pick Sauvignon Blanc because I see it as a possible third way
between Loire and New Zealand. More aromatic than in France with richer body
and more minerally driven than in New Zealand.  "And finally, if you are lucky enough to have well-aged vines Chardonnay can also do surprisingly well in cold sites. Among reds I would pick Merlot and Cabernet Franc given their tendency to ripen on the late side (same timing as Pomerol and Saint Emilion) and to
provide low yields and concentration without losing freshness and spice. Also, Refosco can do very well bringing a Syrah-like spiciness and a full body but it needs to be grown in very well-suited spots. Can you describe the last few vintages and qualify them?  
"2018 was a very sunny and dry vintage, driving to early ripening of some of the whites such as Sauvignon (starting date of harvest 23rd of August) but quite interesting for reds given that the month of September was quite fresh and dry so to give a larger window to pick the reds at the right level of ripening. 2019 was much cooler (starting date of harvest 1st of September) but quite ideal for whites with lively acidities and good concentration. Reds were also fine but some later rain in September affected a bit the possibility of fully ripe tannins so I would consider it as quite average." 
10 DOCs, 4 DOCGs, 30 different varieties, it can be difficult to know where to start exploring the wines of the region. Can you advise?  "Diversity can be fascinating but it can also turn into a nightmare given that you have to add also the wide difference of styles available (stainless steel crisp white wines, barrel fermented Burgundy oriented, orange wines with maceration on the skins…). I cannot really advise on this as I find all this diversity as a real limit to communicate the character of the region, but on the other hand I have to admit that there are very few wine regions in the world (maybe none) where you can find so many reasons of interest. That’s why more and more wine enthusiasts are travelling this way and fall in love with the complexity of these terroirs and
wines." 
Are all the fine wines of the region concentrated in one area or are they dotted all around?  
"90% of what we can call fine wines are made on the hillsides of Collio, Friuli Colli Orientali and Carso and very few are made in flat appellations such as Isonzo." 
Friuli-Venezia Giulia comes across as quite independent from the rest of Italy, why is this?  "I think a whole history of invasions (Romans, Longobardians, Venetians, Austrians, French) has created a sense of self protection. More than this after the Second World War Friuli has turned from a poor region into one of the very wealthy and productive areas of Italy, due to
the silent and consistent attitude for hard work of the Friulians. They have been able to turn it into a well-kept secret and make a pride of it." How long have you worked at Miani?  "I started in 1991 helping him in decision-making at the time of the final blending and taking on my shoulders all the commercial aspects that he did not want to manage." What makes the wines from these top wineries stand out?  "I don’t know if they stand out but what I can surely say that we both apply a tireless dedication and passion to what we do. We both consider single sites and soils more important than varietals and we have the ambition to 'bottle a place' more than a wine." Who has been your biggest inspiration in life and as a vigneron and why?  "My father, a real bon vivant, who put me in contact with great wines since I was still very young and created in my mind the quest for quality in every aspect of my life. My fascination for great wines came from him, just watching his excitement when receiving his annual allocation of Champagne Salon or Monte Vertine (to name a few) and the pleasure he used to take in sharing with friends.  "Then my wife who despite challenges, family issues, economical limitations never gave up looking for the best possible wine here at Gnemiz, loving this place and respecting it as a living treasure and not just as an instrument. Finally Enzo Pontoni at Miani who showed me how you can achieve your goals only with hard work and passion and how you can be the happiest man on earth just for the fact that you are doing exactly the work you want to do in the way you want to do it." How did you first get involved in L’Età Più Bella (With Age Comes Beauty), the old vine project?  "That was Marco Simonit's idea to involve me as we had experimented in the past and in some ways we started the project in the mid ‘90s, but at that time we were all too busy to follow up and we did not have a well-formed concept of what we could do… we were just youngsters…" What is so unique about the wines that have been produced under the L’Età Più Bella label?  "The goal was to explore the identity of various plots of very old vines, all of which were well placed with very good exposition and with an excellent quality of soil. The character which comes out from an old vineyard has a different kind of balance and texture, as we use to say, it is more a “wine of roots” than a “wine of sun”. That’s quite evident by the fact that old vines tend to ripen later than neighbouring young vines and suffer much less from potential water stress, producing more consistent wines of complexity and finesse. We were not looking for fruit bombs to impress but for refined and subtle characters and ageing potential."
 You are a philosopher and a jazz musician as well as a winemaker. Can you tell us more about these passions?  "That’s all too generous, in fact, I have none of these titles. I did not complete my studies in philosophy due to the sudden death of my father so I cannot call myself a philosopher. My passion for philosophy is due to my classics studies and when it was time to chose the University, my father suggested to go for philosophy because, he said, 'when you will
finish your study you will not find a job and can come to help me to sell some
wine!'  "That’s exactly what happened, just with the wrong circumstances. About jazz, I always wanted to become a piano player and I’ve studied a lot for this but in the end, I was not good enough to make a career and I quickly understood there was no point in dreaming of being the new Keith Jarrett, so I became a well trained amateur and I gave up playing in public.  "As for winemaking, I don’t have a formal education given that I had to work and did not have time to study at University, so I started a process of self-education in a kind of backwards process, from my instinctive ability to be a good taster, moving gradually to all the
knowledge which drives the production of wine, from the vineyards to the cellar.  "It took me years and the support of many friends who allowed me to verify my skills in their cellars. The results of my 'experiments' were very promising and convinced me to go deeper in my studies until the point of being able to take full responsibility for wine production as I’ve been doing for the last 20 years." Read more Editorial 

We caught up with Christian Patat to talk about his old-vine project with Marco Simonit – L’Età Più Bella – which will include its first collection of wines from top sites in Friuli this summer

Christian Patat on his old-vine project with Marco Simonit – L’Età Più Bella – which expands to include top sites in Friuli this summer

The wines of Friuli-Venezia Giuli

Christian Patat on the wines of Friuli-Venezia Giuli

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

Xiao-Li Meng, Whipple V. N. Jones Professor of Statistics at Harvard and Founding Editor-in-Chief of Harvard Data Science Review, was inspired by a student to combine wine and statistics—leading to insights far beyond what they ever expected.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Seeking simplicity in statistics, complexity in wine, and everything else in fortune cookies 

Friuli Grave

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