Tony's Diary

My Life in Wine - Part 17

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Wed, 04 Nov 2015 17:19:00 +0000

This is the cover of a Bordeaux Direct Catalogue from 1976. Just France? Yep. The Sunday Times Wine Club may have started me off globetrotting for wines, but France was what I stuck to doing for BD customers back then; pretty much just France. Which I have always loved. I travelled endlessly round the whole country, meeting, making friends, tasting and loading up boxes. The van and I covered many miles more than the map shows. I slept in the van, on the boxes, or in old-style Hotels de la Gare and suchlike...good food, damp beds, very cheap.

On the road in France

Having got me buying from his wine making friends in Bordeaux, Monsieur Cassin told me to go round the whole country and meet his friends in other parts. He and Henri Dubernet in the Midi had set up a sort of club of like-minded, small, wine producers who knew each other from meeting up at wine competitions in Paris, Macon, Bordeaux etc. They all competed hard to improve their reputations by winning loads of medals.

About half were independents, half were co-operatives. None were merchants. Together, they’d started marketing their wines under a banner 'Race et Fidelité' which means, I suppose, making wines 'the right and proper way'. They all believed in maintaining classic standards of winemaking in their own individual regional styles and were firmly opposed to cutting corners to achieve some slight price advantage. They would judge each other's wines in blind tastings and award stars … meagerly! They were hard on each other. They were also a bit more expensive than the market. But then, they had won all those medals. Monsieur Cassin said I could do worse than go and see these people, learn from them, buy from them, and that I could trust them absolutely.

So off I went in the Transit, the old rock n' roll cassettes blasting away. Customers reckoned that for me it was just one long holiday. In one way it was. I loved seeing all the different landscapes as I bopped along; the arid, the green, and the frozen; the sunburnt villages of the south, the Christmas Card village snow scenes up north in Alsace. But it wasn't leisurely. And still isn't for me and my buyers today. Days are packed with visits from dawn to well after dark. That's to keep down costs but also because something is always urging you on; the thought that in the next cellar you may make some Holy Grail of a discovery.

So, in all these years it's honestly true that I have rarely lingered to admire the lovely views. I have rarely stopped for lovely, long French lunches with sieste to follow. I have always had to crack on. I don't believe I would be doing my job right if I just bought wine by phone or email from the UK. Buying on the spot gives us an edge, but you don't half have to get a wiggle on.

I soon met them all; Monsieur Cassin's friends, and bought from most. Great people. Afterwards, I added new finds of my own … similar people with similar ideals, and I began adding the strap line 'All wines bottled by the men who made them'. (They were all men, back then.) I had found that customers liked that reassurance, that what it said on the label was what it really was. Maybe I set a trend. UK bottling of wines began to die out … did eventually die out.

Until, that is, quite recently when it has roared back. Today, the majority of wines sold in the UK are once again bottled here in massive factories. It certainly makes them cheaper. And I have to admit that now, unlike in the old days, the bottling is done well. But … it worries me, some. I cling to the notion of wine farmers producing a finished product, a little work of art, signed, as it were, by them. At the same time I do realise that we have to stay competitive. So, we do some bottling, but we watch everything very closely. Mark Hoddy our winemaker will always go to watch the wine being loaded at the winery, then ride shotgun home and supervise the unloading. You cannot be too careful.

Dodgy things can happen … allegedly! Some quite legal. For example, if a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc is shipped in bulk to the UK via Australia, it is perfectly legal for a percentage of Australian white wine (Ugni Blanc or something cheap, but rarely Sauvignon!) to be blended in en route. Which is why, sometimes, you get cheaper New Zealand Sauvignons that taste rather less Sauvignon than usual.

Anyway, back to the Seventies. In the days before 'Wine Guides', The Internet, Google and all that, how did you find good winemakers in regions where Monsieur did not have a mate? One way was to write off for the lists of medal winners at various French shows and concours and look out for regular winners. Anyone can get lucky in competition once; it’s a string of wins that denotes a great vineyard, real skill and quality.

There was another way. For 'research' purposes only – a claim sometimes questioned by Barbara, who controlled expenses – I would just have to eat a meal at the best restaurant in whichever area I was in … and pick the brains of the sommelier.

From early on I had discovered and loved the strong, dark-red wines of Gascony, the wines from South Western regions, from what they called the Haut Pays. These were the wines which had helped create the original reputation of Bordeaux, but which, over the centuries, the unscrupulous Bordelais had managed to embargo, for just long enough every year, to favour their own poorer wines. In the Middle Ages, you read that the English market much preferred the inland wines from the Haut Pays which were rich, stronger and darker than the paler wines of Bordeaux itself, which, back then, went by the name of 'Clairet' (pale wine) … only in later centuries becoming the darker 'Claret'.

The little region of Madiran near Pau, to the south of Bordeaux, had shrunk to but a handful of growers of which the wine of Laplace family was the only one you saw in the good eating places. On a very early and unique 'family' trip, we all turned up; Monsieur, Madame, Barbara and I, at their place one bright autumn morning to find three generations of the Laplace family out in the yard having a bottling day. They are big people in this region (where rugby first took hold in France) and Grandfather in his huge 'beret basque' and clogs, with his big moustache, was clearly still the respected patriarch. But his son now ran the place with his wife and their teenage children. Everyone had their role that day, and all the men wore those big Basque berets. We got shown their huge old 100-year-old vines, then invited in to eat round their enormous kitchen table. And they gave us for aperitif, the local white wine which they had just brought back from virtual extinction; Pacherenc du Vic- Bilh. We loved everything about this family.

Cahors, west of Bordeaux, was less exciting. Older customers were always keen I should get some Cahors. So I did. The only source appeared to be the co-op at Parnac. Nice red wine.But older customers would swirl the pale-ish red wine around their glass and declaim "Ah! The black wine of Cahors". Such is the power of suggestion! In people's minds, Cahors seemed always black, when it clearly wasn't anymore. On subsequent visits I learnt that the Bordeaux blockade and phylloxera had wiped out all the ancient vineyards on the near-vertical, bare, 'scree' slopes north of the river. These had produced tiny quantities of small, very ripe, black grapes which made the true black wine. In recent times the area had fought its way back into existence, but had replanted its traditional Cot or Malbec vines on the flat, fertile 'easy' land south of the river. Made a nice wine, but no way was it black.

In more recent times young, maybe braver growers have returned to cultivate the steep slopes and barren causses. And once again produce black Cahors worthy of the name.

From Cahors, my regular route would then take me on up to Gaillac, a 'lost' region where a couple of giant co-operatives made what were the cheapest 'honest' wines in France. To explain the need for the qualifying word 'honest' I mean the wine was what it claimed it was; from the vineyards of the co-op members. It was always possible to buy still cheaper wine from places more like factories than wineries, down in the Mediterranean ports. But what they sold was a mix of stuff that came in on boats from anywhere at all where wine was cheap! Merchants! I may be one myself, but Monsieur taught me always to be wary of Merchants.

Gaillac White became my House Wine for some years. The red, which I got from the village of Cunac, proved not to be reliably ripe every vintage. Again, however, in recent years a whole generation of young, independent, wine growers – perhaps aided by global warming, certainly aided by improved viticultural skills – now produce a very impressive range of exciting wines, often made from grape varieties only found in this region like the Len de L'El - in the old Langue d'Oc language of the south. In modern French that means Loin de l'Oeil or 'far from the eye' … which I have always thought a delightful way of conveying that this variety produces very small grapes!

I came to learn that in Gaillac a great injustice had been visited upon the gentle, kind and remarkably intelligent man who was already a hero of mine … and many others. I introduced you to Jean Dubernet earlier; the oenologist who revolutionised winemaking in Languedoc and Roussillon and set up the 'club' of quality-obsessed winemakers I was now discovering around France.

Apparently, when he left his early life as a wine consultant in Bordeaux, seeking more of a challenge, he first of all took the job of running the biggest wine co-op in France at Labastide de Levis in Gaillac. The place – indeed the whole region – was really struggling. Unlike the hot Midi, the high Gaillac district is a cool-climate region, which meant than in some cold years the grapes did not, back then, ripen quite enough to make decent wine. Cold years also happened in Bordeaux and Burgundy.

But they had – and still have – a remedy: sugar. Appellation Controllée regions have the right to 'chaptalise' their wines … they can add sugar to their grape juice. Sugar ferments into alcohol very well, so if you add it to watery grapes you get a stronger wine … admittedly with the teensy problem that fermented sugar has no flavour. Nonetheless chaptalisation (named after clever Monsieur Chaptal who long ago wrote the book and explained that, fundamentally, it was sugar, natural or added, which distinguished good wine from basic 'piquette; the old term for what we would call 'plonk') was widely practised in the period we are discussing. It is much less done these days. Thankfully.

Gaillac had the problem that it was not an Appelation Controllée region but fell into the second division of 'VDQS' wines. (It has since become AOC). So it was not allowed to add sugar. Meaning, some years, its wines were unsaleable; a ruinous problem for an already poverty-stricken region.

Dubernet – as he was always called – found a solution … or so he thought. By putting a proportion of the winery's juice through a sort of pressure cooker thing, he was able to concentrate it. This rich concentrate he could then add to the normal juice … instead of sugar. Which you would think a better solution; more authentic, more flavourful. But the Appellation Controllée regions did not see it that way. They saw it as a threat to their exclusive right to be able to boost the strength of their wines and persuaded the authorities that Dubernet was about to unleash a torrent of rather good wine from regions which were, officially – therefore unquestionably – inferior piquette producers. The great and good of Bordeaux, Burgundy etc had, of course, excellent connections in Paris. Gaillac - "where?” - did not.

Dubernet was arrested, tried and imprisoned … for trying to make a better wine … and help impoverished wine growers. Monsieur Cassin and directors of wine cooperatives throughout France were incensed at this and mounted a 'Free Dubernet' campaign. Which worked. But Dubernet had to leave Gaillac. He left behind his legacy; the lightly-sparkling Gaillac Perlé – his invention – which to this day is the best known wine of Gaillac, and moved down to Narbonne where he set up his oenological practice and started his next campaign: to get the winegrowers of the much vaster Midi out of the parlous situation they too were in. But I've already told you about that in an earlier blog.

My journey would take me also from Gaillac through Castres and over the Montagne Noir down into the real hot, dry, Midi, and Narbonne.

I am writing this stranded for hours in Bordeaux airport by a yet-again delayed flight. The only consolation is one solitary bottle of Midi Chardonnay in the lounge fridge made by a guy called Gerard Bertrand who used to play in the back row for France. Which is weird. Because I was just coming to another story to add to the ones I've already told about my wine hunting in the Midi … and the next name on my 1976 list of suppliers: Georges Bertrand; father of the above Gerard. So I shall quietly enjoy that bottle, type the story and hope a plane turns up sometime.

Georges Bertrand was a courtier, which is the rather splendid title the French give to their wine brokers. These are the very active guys who spend their days visiting wine growers tasting and collecting samples of their wine. They take these to the merchants and attempt to sell a tank or two. They will, if they can, take a commission from the producer, and from the merchant. If they are sharp they can do well. Georges was sharp, and had an office in Gasparets near Lezignan. Super fit, he had been a good rugby player and was now an international referee. Sharp, he was. He quickly cottoned on that I liked the softer, fruitier, maceration carbonique style of red, and instead of supplying me from one of his producers realised he could do better himself. His maceration carbonique, (I preferred to call this 'uncrushed-bunch fermented' because it's less scary-sounding) Grenache, Cinsault, Carignan from his vineyard was lovely. But had no name. Few Midi wines did back then. They just had tank numbers. Anyway, our off-top-of-head idea 'Cuvée Georges Bertrand' seemed OK to him. So, with a quickly sketched-out label, away it went … to wide acclaim. When we launched the Sunday Times Wine Club, 'Le Georges' was the most popular wine. We sold a ton, and established a style which continues very popular to this day.

With Dubernet we three then came up with a follow-up idea; a lightly sparkling rosé, to be called 'Rosé Perlant'. When a wine has a lot of bubbles the French call it Mousseux … as it foams, or mousses. With fewer bubbles it gets called a Crémant - creamy. Even fewer bubbles make it a pétillant - it prickles. With only a few bubbles or 'pearls' it is perlant or a perlé.

Georges was, as I said, sharp, but I haggled a great price out of him and felt good about that. However … when a thousand dozen turned up in Slough, for our next Sunday Times Offer, they had labels … but no capsules! "You didn't ask for capsules" said big Georges, all innocent. Me; "Bbbb but, but, BUT … bottles always have capsules!" ... it was futile.

We was stuffed. We had just one day to pack and despatch six thousand mixed dozens containing two bottles of a wine looking really cheap because it had no capsule. Our desperate solution was to send someone out round every Boots in the Home Counties and clean them out of the capsules they sold to amateur winemakers. It was an all-night job with those bloody capsules and the end of quite such a cosy relationship with Georges.

But his wine continued to sell well. And he was a good bloke, really. Some years later I got the dreadful news that Georges had aquaplaned off the autoroute at Narbonne, fatally … one of an alarming number of wine suppliers I have lost – and continue to lose – in road accidents in France. Great, great tragedy. Great guy, if a touch sharp. But also great to see his boy now doing so well. That was not a bad Chardonnay … the bottle had a capsule … and the plane came.

Puisseguin

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Mon, 26 Oct 2015 13:56:00 +0000

I can't write this week. Nothing jolly at any rate. Puisseguin is the village near Bordeaux where I first worked in wine, at the Cave Co-op fifty years ago. Yesterday's bus disaster was on the road I know so well, north to Petit Palais, which has a church I love for its tiny beautiful, ornate west front. That tiny village has just lost all its people of my age. Horrifically. And it's likely we know the bus and its driver as we hire our coaches near there. We get used to seeing worse disasters on the TV, but when it gets this close it’s different.

The 2015 Harvest continues

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Wed, 21 Oct 2015 16:46:00 +0000

Friday 9 Oct

Harrow and Hope vineyard, Marlow

I'd washed 150 grape baskets before the sun came up, this morning, before I paused to think "what the **** am I doing? In a few weeks I'll be 70 so why am I standing here, all wet, on the top of a hill, with the biting northeast wind removing all sense of feeling?"

The answer is 'Wine'. It makes you do daft things … even stone cold and very sober.

The 2015 English wine harvest is turning out to be very exciting … and addictive. For us it started last Friday. Just back from Bordeaux, where the harvesting had paused, it was straight back into it here at Marlow.

Thirty-five trained pickers – and the baskets – came thick and fast. Luckily for me, the basket cleaner – my job for all our vintages in France, then here; a minor role but quite crucial, I feel – we had invested in a real basket washing machine. Previously the machine was me with a Kärcher jet washer. And that was very slow. I would still be cleaning after the others had gone home.

Last year's basket washer

Now we have this thing – labeled 'Tony 2.0' by a cheeky son – that looks like an airport security ‘remove all laptops and liquids’ tunnel. So all I have to do is put the baskets in and get very wet … but it’s progress. Very little mud, this year. And very healthy, robust grapes so not much sticky oozing juice, either. So super-clean fruit … from my super-clean baskets!

This year's basket washer

I am proud of this. It was us who introduced the notion of picking into small, clean, washed baskets to Bordeaux. I nicked the idea off Peter Vinding Diers; a Dane, who had got the idea from Brian Crozer. Well, if you want wine that tastes of fruit you have to keep the dirt out.

But perhaps I go on too much.

The pickers pick about twice as fast as the wine press presses. So Saturday we were at it all day finishing Friday's grapes. A second wine press would be nice but they are rather expensive.

We only finished on Sunday morning.

Then it was over to Windsor Great Park for their first picking there. The Windsor fruit was superb. A lovely day's picking in the sun with the little lake below, glittering brightly. Maybe it is the reflected lake sunshine that helps Windsor ripen so beautifully? There was again evidence of bird damage but we didn't actually see the hordes of parakeets we did last year. Maybe they went back to Australia.

Monday was another big sunny picking day at Marlow. The weather really has come good at the crucial moment.

Wednesday 14 Oct

They tell me the weather is the same in France, so they are holding back the final harvest for days there. The Cabernets have been left to ripen, ripen, ripen. And the weather still looks good. Jean-Marc says we are on the way to making 'Un Monstre'; the big, black, low-tannin stuff which he knows I love … wine which is already delicious before we even bottle it. Cabernet that looks like it will come in super-ripe at 14.7, or so, is something he says he has never seen before in his 26 years. I certainly haven't.

Sunday 18 Oct

We picked Henry's last Harrow and Hope grapes an hour ago. We now have to press them, which will take today and most of tomorrow. But a great harvest safely in is a very nice feeling.

Yesterday, we picked the Pinots at tardy Wyfold. The villagers – the Wyfoldians – had signed up, ready to go. But the Pinots provided only a small crop. As usual, Barbara's high vineyard is taking us down to the wire and the poor girl is back to lying awake fretting. Her vines are still a healthy green, photosynthesising away, and she has a big leaf canopy. But the weather is getting colder, and the days shorter. There will come a point when ripening will stop. Her Pinots (Noir and Meunier) were ripe enough to pick and will make good wine but the Chardonnay grapes are still short on the sugars. Will they get there? We cannot help but keep remembering 2007 and 2012 … when they didn't … so no wine could be made … after a whole year's hard work!

We have netted them against the birds. That’s all we can do … except pray, for the next week or so.

Blog break for harvest

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Wed, 07 Oct 2015 12:35:00 +0000

Wine harvest dates can be hard to nail. This Spring the vines started early so harvest dates were penciled in early; mid-September for our Bordeaux vineyards, early October for our English vineyards. Then, cool August pushed the dates back to end-September and mid-October. But warm September brought them forward again, only for them to move back again on account of the weather being so good we'd be mad not to let the grapes soak up more sunshine.

Result was we started last week, Friday 2nd October in France and will start – we think – a week later in the Thames Valley. I've been scuttling back and forward to France and back every week, recently, and that continues, because of things in the diary that can't be moved. So I have not always been in the right place when the action started. Sod’s law.

Sitting around in airports does however give me some time to write my history blogs. But not quite enough to finish any. So there will have to be a pause until all the grapes are in. Harvests, as I guess all farmers know, dominate all thought.

I've always thought it a blessing that vintage time coincides with Party Conference time. We always manage to miss all those speeches. Shame!

I am very happy that in France all our Merlot is now safely in tanks; black, juicy and almost 15 degrees. So we can expect a very good wine this year as merlot is the bulk of what we make. The very old vineyard at Le Bourg is the only one still out there. Older vines take their time like old men do. But their grapes look very healthy and taste better than all the rest. The weather forecast is good. So we will just wait.

The Cabernets, which take longer to ripen are still out there of course. But they too look 100% healthy – no rot – so we are quite relaxed about them, too. If the weather breaks we will whip them in sharpish but meantime they are enjoying the warm Indian Summer like us.

Our new cellar is therefore full except for one small tank for the remaining Merlot and one big one for the Cabs. Apart from a slight waste water drainage issue the redesign has worked a treat. The place is bright and airy and easy to keep clean. A big step up. We had a time-lapse camera in there last week. Plan to put the film on the web. Should be fun. I'll see what they get up to when I am not around.

Tomorrow I fly to the UK again and Friday we start harvesting the black grapes at Harrow & Hope, Marlow. I will be on crate washing duty as usual. Sunday we harvest the black grapes at Windsor Great Park. Dates for the white grapes Chardonnay … dunno yet!

Today I have a party of Laithwaites people to show round La Clarière and Le Chai au Quai.

So must dash.

My Life in Wine - Part 16

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Tue, 29 Sep 2015 12:27:00 +0000

California

Perhaps the best way to learn about wine and wine people is by taking customers around the vineyards, being a tour guide. I first did this when I worked in Bordeaux in '69, occasionally hiring myself out as an English-speaking guide to the CIVB, who look after promoting Bordeaux wine. My first job was taking round a party of British journalists … a baptism by fire, it was a nightmare as you can imagine. The prodigious wine consumption had the result of me getting my first, and only, newspaper headline; “Ex-Eton tea-boy in the vineyards”. No, I didn’t go to Eton, but had worked on a building site in Eton.

Anyway, a lifetime later, there I was, this week, in Bordeaux, still standing – just – at the front of a bus with the microphone, showing round a load of Laithwaite's people. It was a rather unusual tour that seemed to focus on building sites and new wine projects, but that helped to take my mind back to one of the most exciting customer trips ever and my first to California.

We advertised a wine trip there in Spring 1976, hoping to get a bus-load of people as normal. But I guess the price, the lack of familiarity with the wines, and the long distance, were a bit much, so we ended up with only sixteen of us.

Perhaps we were just a month early. In May, Steven Spurrier held the legendary France v. California wine tasting – now a major motion picture – known as 'The Judgement of Paris' where, for the first time France's total dominance in Fine Wine received a knock from some American upstarts. The Top French Experts, tasting blind, rated the best Californian wines marginally higher than the finest of France. The upstart crow wines, previously dismissed as simple stuff were revealed to have all the finesse of a Mouton or Meursault.

But Californian wine in the '70s was already news. You didn’t yet see Californian bottles anywhere on UK shop shelves, but people in the wine trade were talking about it a lot because it was in California where so much of the modernisation of wine happened. You could say the New Wine Age we live in began in the sixties in California. The research, the discovering of new ways to do things, the improvements; so much of that was done at Davis University in California. There was good research going on in all European wine countries, and in Australia, but it was quiet stuff. California was not quiet. Is it ever? It shouted loud and it challenged. News of The Judgement of Paris in Steven's cute little wine shop (which I would visit any time my journeys took me through Paris) was considered a scandal in France and the result was hushed up, and ignored.

Not in California it wasn't. By the time we flew PanAm to San Francisco in October 1976 the wine people there talked of little else.

When we landed, instead of a bus, we hired two of those big old American station-wagons. Eight people in each and all the luggage roped on to the roof racks. We discovered the delights of a world first; an old fish dock turned into a major shopping and eating experience; Fisherman's Wharfe. Then were shown round the brand new Wine Museum by its boss and afterwards got red carpet treatment at the Californian Wine Institute. It is amazing the doors that open, and the carpet that gets rolled out, just through having Hugh Johnson with you. No-one says "No" to Hugh if he asks if he can drop in with a few chums.

Then the convoy set off for the vineyards. We were a mixed bunch. There was a young lawyer, a young British couple from Holland, a retired Indian Army officer and his memsahib … very, very different people but all fascinating and all getting on amazingly well. And there was me, Hugh and Judy Johnson and the resourceful Bill Brenchley who organised the whole thing.

We went up to the Napa Valley. First place was the Mondavi winery with its iconic archway, where Bob Mondavi himself met us and showed us around. He gave us a tasting I remember very well indeed. He wanted a replay of the Paris thing and so opened a bottle of Château Latour for us to compare with his top cabernet. Some said it was the Californian climate, some reckoned it was his strength of personality, but anyway, everyone preferred the Mondavi wine.

We dropped in at the Christian Brothers’ winery and met the famous Brother Timothy for a heavenly tasting. We went to 'Bolo' or Beaulieu, which we would pronounce differently and the French would too, for a bit of a tasting and tour there. We went up north to stay in Calistoga and the following day we dropped in at Schramsberg; now the absolutely iconic sparkling wine of California but then just beginning to get going and not yet well known. We had a tasting and picnic under the trees with Jack Davis and his wife – it was all very California Dreamin'.

And then came a real eye opener; to a winery looking like a Spanish monastery, all white, that had just opened perched on top of a hill. You went up to it via cable cars, it was called Sterling Vineyard. The guy who showed us around, the winemaker, is now a very famous winemaker but I can’t remember his name. I’ll have to ask Hugh. It was amazing to me to think that someone could be so bold as to stick a gorgeous new winery on the top of a steep hill and put in gondolas. Certainly something you were never going to see in Europe, where wineries were always old … if they were new they were ugly sheds.

California was just so inspiring, so mind-liberating back then. If they could do stuff like this there, we should try it, too. People should experiment, try new things. It was just wonderful to think you could do these wild things, no-one stopped you, and … they worked!

That evening we went round to Heitz after hours and met the renowned Joe Heitz, a slightly tetchy gravel-voiced old fella, who I found so terrifying that I didn’t dare say a thing. He’d already established his Martha's Vineyard label and it had triumphed in Paris. But he didn’t suffer fools. So this fool kept quiet.

That evening we had dinner at Beringer which was rather special. They laid on a picnic for us in the warm night air. The following day we went a bit further afield and went down the Russian River Valley to Simi and had a tasting with this young woman winemaker – first time I had seen one! We had lunch at Souverain, then went to Korbel and then, I think, we then on down to the coast.

The next day we switched regions. We drove south of San Francisco to the Paul Mason winery which was a massive place. We had a tour there and they gave us a massive lunch. In the afternoon we did Mirassou and toured Carmel which was, as I remember, very pretty all in multicoloured pastel clapboard. A very different area to Napa.

The following day we went just up the road to the Monterey vineyard to see Dick Peterson who was a great friend of Hugh’s. I remember those were the range of wines that impressed me most on the whole tour, and that I arranged to buy. We climbed up in the hills to a half-built Chalone – another winner in Paris with, amazingly, one of the first wines they ever made – where the semi-naked, whippet-thin, ultra-fit owner, Dick Graff, impressed us all, especially the ladies.

The really big coup of the whole trip I suppose was the following day going to Central Valley to Livingstone and to Gallo to watch the harvest and the crush coming in and then to have lunch on his lawn with the great Ernest Gallo himself. That was quite something. I sat next to him and chatted nervously. I remember babbling “you’re the biggest wine producer in the whole world. I suppose you did it by taking over other wine companies and clever deals and stuff like that”. Because I was a naive Brit, I thought, like we all did, that serious business growth was all linked to stuff that went on in The City; companies taking over other companies, merging, de-merging, all that impenetrable Financial Times stuff; I thought that was how big companies grew in those days. And this big, laconic American chewed long on his steak and eventually slowly replied "No son, we just started a long time ago and every year, we just grew a bit”. I am sure it never was that simple but that came as revelation for me, and an inspiration. It’s what our business has done ever since; we started (long ago now); and we grow a bit every year, mostly.

I was astonished by what I saw at Gallo. They were a company that didn’t do tours in those days. We were privileged. It was the sheer numbers that were just staggering. They had a million gallon tank. Biggest in the world. They also had a massive warehouse for the finished cartons of bottled wine, so big we toured it by bus. Their wine, then, mostly got shipped out by train. I think they told us they could run an entire train into this warehouse and then, with lifting trucks that had arms, (not forklifts as they didn’t waste space with pallets) they could stuff the cartons into the wagons, fill the entire train and send it off in just 20 minutes!

We went to see the grapes arriving. I’ve seen plenty of wineries over the years but I have never seen one like this. Great rows of trucks lined up as if in military formations. At the grape arrival deck they had monster machines that just grabbed each grape lorry – the whole lorry! Turned it upside down, shook it a bit so all the grapes came out into the receiving bins. I remember thinking those truck drivers had best be getting out of their lorries a bit sharpish or risk joining their grapes in the crusher.

Then we saw where the wines were made. These were the days before Gallo started or were about to start making their varietal wines. Back then they basically made a wine called Hearty Burgundy which was a massive hit. And a shablee – Chablis (the US has never worried overmuch about borrowing French appellation names.) Hugh always said Hearty Burgundy was the best cheap wine or best everyday wine in the world, back then … far better than the vin ordinaires of France. It was true. They made superb basic wines. And kept the costs down by sheer engineering. This was a winery/factory where the grapes went in at one door, whilst at another door, sand went in and got turned into glass bottles. Somewhere in the middle the two came together and out at the far end came bottled wine. It just boggled your imagination.

That was the end of our wine tour. The Grand Finale. After that we went up to Yosemite for a bit of recreation, climbed a few cliffs – the ones that had staircases – and then flew home. It was amazing how we learnt so much in a week. We saw a great new wine country, a great wine story just as it began. I certainly got fired up by that famous 'can do' attitude, and the speed they were going. After all, the Californian wine industry could be said to be really very young because of course Prohibition had shut the whole thing down for many years. So although winemaking started on the West Coast with the Conquistadors, all the operations we saw were pretty much brand new. And they had already achieved so much.

This week in Bordeaux we saw several examples of how enterprising people are – at last – investing millions into livening up the Bordeaux Wine Scene. Forty years later Bordeaux is now catching up with Napa and Sonoma and Co.

We observed the new Cheval Blanc winery (giant flying saucer with trees on), whilst sitting next door atop a giant shiny red metallic box in the Terrace Rouge brasserie at next door La Dominique. We visited a building site at Château Marquis d'Alesme next door to Château Margaux where they are finishing a winery that is classic Bordeaux outside but totally Chinese inside. At Les Carmes Haut-Brion we saw a half finished winery looking like a great upturned boat – in the middle of a pond, when finished – the latest creation of Phillipe Starck. We also, of course, saw the extraordinary Peby Faugeres building which is hard to miss because it sits in the middle of the view from our own La Clarière.

And we saw – best of all – our own new winery, about to receive its first vintage. Compared to all the above, ours is a modest affair, but for me it is the most exciting of all. Harvest news next week.

My Life in Wine - Part 15

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Wed, 23 Sep 2015 10:44:00 +0000

Selling wine in the Seventies

Back from Georgia and back to trying to remember the Seventies in the UK – which nowadays seems like it was a foreign country too. What was it like selling wine in the UK back then? Well, despite the generally knackered state of the country – three-day weeks and all – it wasn't too bad really. It was, for us, that most blessed thing for any start-up: the right place, at the right time. Not something that is planned. Though you claim it was, afterwards.

For starters there wasn't much competition. We were doing something which seemed unusual and different, which always helps. Starting up any kind of business was just not what anyone did in those days. People said it was a brave thing to do. Not if you had no alternative and nothing to lose, it wasn't.

It was good to have started young. People are kind to young entrepreneurs. And you have all that energy. And you are naive. You can't, at that innocent age, see how it could all go so horribly wrong. You can't see much ahead of today’s urgent stuff. But you can't stop … even for a pee. I remember I always seemed to be busting for a pee in those days. No time to go.

Wine, which had been of interest only to a few wealthy and privileged people had begun to interest many more – previously beer drinkers or Martini devotees. They had been over to France and beyond on the new ferries or they had flown Freddie Laker to Spain or Italy. They'd seen vineyards and drunk what came out of them. This was a growing audience for us.

At the same time, Resale Price Maintenance, which allowed big wine merchants to control who could sell wine, had been abolished. This allowed small outfits like us to get in. The market was opened up.

And that also allowed more small producers to go out and – like Monsieur Cassin and his friends – market their own bottles directly, rather than having to sell their wine in bulk to the almost-cartel of big merchants who, so far, had dominated the trade. So we had a rapidly growing choice of wine producers to buy from.

However getting a Retail Licence in the UK was still tricky, as established traders would always gang up against would-be new entrants. They’d employ smart barristers to convince judges and magistrates that one new wine shop in town would lead to mass drunkenness, debauchery and widespread moral decay. This restrictive trade practice made it very hard for a newcomer to get a licence. For a twenty-something, long-haired likely lad, pretty much impossible. Luckily, though, I somehow discovered it was dead easy to get something quite unheard-of … a WHOLESALE wine licence.

You just paid five pounds, got a bit of paper and away you went! You didn't have to trouble the Magistrates at all. True, customers couldn't buy just one bottle, they would have to order a minimum of a dozen bottles, but that didn't appear to be a problem. In fact it helped. The law may have implied, but didn't exactly say all the bottles had to be the same. Which opened the way for mixed-dozens which, happily for us, turned out to be mighty popular and our stairway to success.

They said it would never work. But it did. And not just for us. Some years later, a smart couple of chaps tried the same thing, also in a railway arch, would you believe. Self-effacing types, they called themselves 'Majestic'.

Rather than just buying a bottle from the 'offie' on the way home, people began to get the habit of spending Saturday mornings at the old Railway Arch, chatting, tasting, wandering about amidst dusty piles of bottles. (We kept a good supply of dust). They took home on average 24 bottles!

This week I read that some town centres are now actually opening places for weary blokes to rest and relax, rather than being obliged to trudge round after they who shop. An alternative to hanging around outside changing rooms like a spare whatsit is provided. These towns think this a new idea. It could be that back in Windsor in the early 70's some men already thought that the wife doing the food shop, while they bought the wine at The Arch was a fair way of dividing chores. But those were such sexist times.

The emphasis on Saturdays gave us the idea of franchising using the wholesale licence idea. I wrote and asked if any customers would care to open their own version of our Railway Arch. They would be part-time hobby businesses for wine lovers. We proposed to call them Saturday Cellars.

We ended up with a dozen or so customer-franchisees, in old stables, garages, cellars and even shops! All very low rent though. From Leeds to Winchester. They were fun but … in the end, didn't work! It seems that to run successful franchises you have to be Very Strict with your franchisees. And we weren't. So they all – but one – headed off in their own directions, buying cheap wine and rather losing the plot. Fun while it lasted.

With George, though, it lasted a good long time. Major George Lane was one of the most delightful people we ever worked with. Slightly – but actually very innocently – rascally, George was the only person I ever heard of who had served in all three Armed Services. When he finally retired he bought a van and, like me, went off to the vineyards. Only he hadn't quite had my luck with contacts. So he fell in with us. Opened up in a cellar by the Law Courts in Winchester. The legal profession supported him enthusiastically. And he played it by the book. Stuck to our good wines. Ah! George we had some good bottles and good times!

Wholesale cellars; 'doing a Majestic' before Majestic did, was definitely an option for us. But we didn't take it then. We went another way. Were we wrong? Maybe, but on balance, no. I still believed what I'd been told in the beginning; that wine selling was basically profitless. So if it didn't make money, it had to be fun instead. I think building a chain of 300 shops probably gets a bit repetitive after 20 or so. Not fun, really. The road we chose brings up something new every day. Fun. Exhausting fun, but still fun.

The success of The Direct Sunday Times Wine Club showed us the way; 'mail order wine merchant' is what we realised we were and had to stick with. Though as will emerge later on in this saga, I have never quite cured myself of the addiction to recklessly trying new things.

My start up idea of a peaceful existence quietly and serenely shipping in and selling wine in and around Windsor got a huge jolt from the Sunday Times involvement. From then on I have been in a panic-driven race against deadlines. I still am.

There were these other options though.

Not a lot of people know that we worked with Michael Caine for a while. Pretty good on wines, Sir Michael. Our suppliers were always asking why we didn't supply restaurants. They like to see their wines in famous restaurants. So we tried. But I wasn't keen on that sort of work; what they call the on-trade. I liked selling to private customers. Restaurateurs are something else. Their ordering can be erratic, they can demand instant deliveries, they want credit and well, they can and do go bust. All problems for a fledgling Company.

So when I met up with a charming chap called Michael Druitt who had spent his life selling to restaurants, who really liked selling to restaurants, it seemed he might solve my problem. We helped him set up 'Michael Druitt Wines' and he brought in his friend Michael Caine as partner. (We all lived in Windsor). The Michaels took over 'trade'. But, alas, that too didn't last the course. I am still not quite sure why.

I was learning, the hard way – which is the only way I learn – that I should, as they say, stick to my knitting, to what I know. Mind you, walking round a trade show with Mr Caine was a real treat, I can tell you.

But, dammit, there were other tempting roads to take and I just could not kick the habit of trying them.

Around this time supermarkets – which as far as I can remember only got going in the late 60's –began to take an interest in wine. Since the war, the trade had been dominated by several large groups of off-licences: Grants of St James, Peter Dominic, Victoria Wine, Unwins, Threshers, etc. These had all but wiped out independent wine merchants, but were now about to see their world taken over, in turn, by the supermarkets. (Who will, in turn, come and take it away from supermarkets is something I wonder about, often. It will happen. If only I knew how).

Anyway … one of my Gerrards Cross (always a good place for us) customers, Geoff Brown, rang me one day to say his company had just put him in charge of their new wine division and could I help him. By the way, he worked for Marks and Spencer! So I said "YESSS!" I sourced their new wine division an Alsace Riesling, a Champagne, a Rioja and other things from my suppliers. The orders were huge. Something like a third of our sales, pretty much all from the Champagne.

But a problem arose. I admired M&S, and still do; I wear M&S, I eat M&S. They were, back then, with one exception perfectly delightful to deal with. But a big up-front investment was required. Taking a big team of their buyers, merchandisers and technicians to visit the suppliers was expensive in time and money. Lots of labels had to be printed and packaging sorted. I and my suppliers ran up big bills.

But I enjoyed the experience and learned things of value from M&S like their almost obsessional insistence on hygiene. (My old friend Marcel on the co-op bottling line with the remains of a yellow 'cloppe' dangling from his lower lip would have given M&S a fit. I didn't take them to see him.) But it all came to an end the day a new young man called and told me he thought I was making too much money from them (though I hadn't yet made any!) and that my commission was to be cut in half. I can't quite remember my reply, but Barbara and I quickly decided this would mean years of loss in the vague hope of a return at some future date. So I wrote, and said sadly, we would have to pull out and they should carry on with the suppliers without us.

What happened next did a lot to affirm for me that there is a true brotherhood amongst wine people. The co-operative that produced the Champagne wrote and said that they felt it only fair to continue paying me a commission even if I was no longer involved … I had, after all, got this trade going and they were very happy with it. So for many years afterwards I continued to receive a small commission on the – very successful – M&S Champagne. To the extent that it just about recouped all our investment. But that wasn't enough to tempt me any further with this line of work. I liked – loved, even – my private customers and resolved to stick henceforth just with them.

Direct marketing is what mail order is more properly called, and I really took to it. I love it. It is addictive. I read every book on the subject and attended conferences all over the place. You put together an offer, you send it out. You get a response. You win or you lose. To wildly varying degrees. It is more exciting than betting on the horses … and as addictive. It is also, easily, the best way to learn your trade.

No way was I ever going to apprentice myself to some old wine merchant. With direct marketing, the customers were far better teachers. I wrote to them about wine and hopefully they bought some. If they didn't the figures showed you immediately what you had done wrong. So you didn't do it again. It’s like those experiments they do with monkeys. You write badly or choose wine badly, they don't order. So no reward. Get it right, they order, you get your banana. You learn.

I certainly wasn't going to sign up for more years of academic study. About this time they invented Masters of Wine. It cannot, of course, be true but the word was that a bunch of wine trade chaps got together one jolly evening and decided to create this club. They all voted themselves in as the first 'Masters' but decided to set an exam for any that wanted to follow them in. They, of course, wanted their club to be exclusive. Don't we all? So they made the exam jolly hard. I would have been very keen to join the first group – with no exam. But I wasn't keen on the second or, even worse, subsequent groups, because, to keep the numbers down the exams got harder and harder. These days you have to be a genius to get in.

My experience of exams had never been good. I got what Hugh Johnson says at Cambridge is called a 'Gentleman's Degree'. Yes, I got a 'Third'. Which at Durham is called 'A Third'. With sniggering and derision. I thought I did work quite hard and am not all that stupid, but I have a problem. I can't remember stuff. Under stress, my mind goes quite blank. I have sat through a three-hour exam and not written a word. I blame a teacher I had called Mr. Swindells. Not a nasty teacher, he nonetheless believed that the best way to teach facts was by walking around class barking out questions. He'd be right behind you and bark out "Laithwaite; seven eights?" Answer instantly or 'Thwack' round the head. I just couldn't get my mind off the impending Thwack. And still can't. So me Master of Wine? More exams? Never. Very useful and charming people to know, though, the MW's - just don't mention wine.

The 70's for me were mostly about travelling to discover new vineyards … in Europe mostly. But I did go to California, and that was like I really was dreamin’.

Beyond the Black Sea

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Thu, 10 Sep 2015 10:30:00 +0000

Tbilisi looks like it needs work done on it. Rather dusty and bedraggled with all kinds of dangerous-looking add-ons to old concrete buildings. But there are some gorgeous churches and castle-y things we won't have time to investigate. There are also some big look-at-me architectural showpieces. Many built by the Chinese who, they say, are intent on buying Georgia. But, the place works even if the roads are very, very bumpy. However, at least that slows down the Georgian drivers who are quite mad. But a walk to the Old Town in the evening throng, for a drink and a meal is delightful. They love their food here and eat a lot of it. There is a lot of kebabbed meat – shaslik – and pizza-like bread covered in thick melted cheese … that alone is worth the trip.

We went to a wine bar which was promptly invaded by a horde of small wine growers of the sort who still make wine in large pots sunk in the ground, and give it very minimal attention. Such qvevri wines are much loved by today's cool young wine geeks in The West. To the extent that next week a Convention is to be held here and many of the Great and Good of the wine world are coming to discuss qvevri.

Qvevri wines are, for me, an acquired taste I have not yet managed to acquire … though I have tried. We think we will ship some over so our customers can decide for themselves. Putting bunches of grapes in a big jar and leaving them totally alone six month to do what they will sounds quite a cool idea. Like really 'back to nature'. Like what some neolithic person must have done 8000 years ago … and got a bit of a surprise. Well, it can still come as a bit of a surprise, I find. But if you want to acquire the taste a little suffering is inevitable. There is more than a touch of fanatical CAMRA (real ale campaigners) about these wine beardies, all toasting, singing and speechifying together.

The wine district we went to first was Kharkheti – the largest – which sits in a remote valley. Getting there involves a slow, winding trip up and over the Gambori hills, described to us as the Little Caucasus hills. The real (Big) Caucasus Mountains loom over the other side of the valley, to the north … a massive barrier to all sorts of things.

We went to see just three of the bigger wine producers – this is just a short first-look trip. We cannot cover too much territory. Especially as we are their guests, they are driving, and are big on hospitality which means big meals and everyone standing up making lots of toasts to anything they can think of. This slows you down … as does the heat.

The first group is under the control of two French expats who take us round new or restored hillside vineyards planted with native Georgian varieties. There are over 500 such varieties, so there is really no need to bother with Chardonnay and Cabernet. Which is what, in glorious USSR days – as in Bulgaria – they planted vast acreages of, on the easy to cultivate valley floor. As in Bulgaria, one supposes, they did a fair job but today they are aiming higher. And hillsides are always better … anywhere. The Georgians, it seems, have worked out that the only way into western markets is by producing wines that are both outstanding and original.

This group still operate out of one of the old soviet wineries – not pretty – but now made perfectly serviceable at reasonable cost with a lot of good modern kit in the way of presses and such and a lot of quality French oak barriques.

The second winery we saw was brand new but made to look old and set up as a tourist destination as well as a working winery. Apparently it is owned by an important German railwayman wishing to diversify and who loves the country. Excellent wines, and there were, indeed wine tourists – even British ones – sitting on the terrace, out of the sun, looking at the mountains and vineyards, sipping them.

The last place that day had pushed the tourist concept yet further. Vastly further. We were quite stunned by the welcome. And old hands like us are not easily stunned. Firstly, in the vineyards we found a group of traditionally dressed Georgians in full regalia with the baggy pants and the boots and cartridge pockets on their jackets and all … singing! Singing so beautifully, songs where each singer from high tenor to deep bass sang his own tune quite sublimely. There was this high … gantry? over the road up which we climbed on ladders – Beth wishing she had worn trousers – and saw endless vineyard all around us … whilst the singers below, sang sweetly. Good moment.

At the 'Chateau' itself things became surreal. We were invited, first, to climb into a large, hollowed out old log filled with grapes and squash them with our feet, then drink the green, only slightly foot-flavoured juice that trickled out of the end … whilst again, the Georgian boys sang. Then we went over to a place where a great fire of vine cuttings burned. We were shown how to make and cook and eat dumplings. We then tried to cook bread their way slapping dough onto the walls of a tandoor-type of oven called … something else. We failed utterly but it didn't matter.

Then we were making something you see everywhere in Tbilisi being sold from stalls. Sausage-like dangly things which aren't meat at all but pieces of walnut or hazelnut tied in long strings then dipped in a toffee-like substance made simply by boiling and concentrating fresh grape juice with flour. This goo adheres to the nuts and a sweet sausage thing is formed, then dried, and kept, for good, nutritious eating right through the year.

Then there was the still-house where warm white spirit trickles out of the still and you get to sample it after it has been aged for at least … ten minutes.

This wine and food fairground was for our benefit but it is now there for anyone who cares to visit the place … which they call 'The Tunnel'. For indeed a tunnel is the climax of the visit. Miles of tunnel cut out of a very solid granite hill, from one side to the other so the air circulates constantly at a stable, cool temperature. Lined with bottles, and with qvevris full of wine underfoot. They remove one qvevri lid and dip straight in for cups of amber liquid, for yet another surreal experience because, of course, the Georgian boy band have started up those haunting polyphonic melodies yet again. It is all too much when they whizz us up a good hundred feet in a lift to the eyrie at the top of the rock where they have set out the work part of our visit – the tasting. Sparking wines , white wines , pink wines, orange wines, red wines, black-red wines. Dry, semi-dry, semi-sweet, and sweet. An amazing range.

Does Georgian wine have the potential to make it in the West? You bet it does.

The next day we head west to another region, driven – whew – nicely by an old friend and neighbour from Castillon. Patrick Hannef ran our most-feared rival winery in Castillon – Château D'Aiguille – until, looking for a big new challenge, he upped and left for Georgia … though he comes back for holidays. I like Patrick a lot as, despite being a rival, he was very generous with his help and advice to my son Henry when he set up his own winery.

Today I see Patrick certainly has a big job here. And is not short of challenges. The owners of the property he runs have spent millions restoring an eighteenth-century French style wine chateau built by a Georgian who had visited Bordeaux, got inspired and built up a hugely successful wine empire. But then came phylloxera. And what that didn't finish off was finished off by his gambler son. But the ruins have been restored, the vineyards replanted, the cellars re-done and the great park is now well looked after. It is a work in progress. Patrick intends this too will be a 'Destination' for wine tourists … the Number One destination, in fact, with the Number One wine… and looking at his record with d'Aiguille well, my guess is he'll do it. Look out for Chateau Mukhrani. (The name might need some work).

We finish with a comprehensive tasting in Tbilisi that the Georgian Wine Association considered worthy of our attention. Quite a lot to assimilate in a short time. Head-spinning stuff.

All I know is we will all be hearing more about Georgian wine, for sure … err … I hope. Patrick did let slip that just before he arrived at his chateau the Russians had actually – not figuratively – parked their tanks on his lawn … and even now were only 40 miles away.

But Georgia has survived worse, and 8000 years of winemaking! That's not going to go away is it?

My Life in Wine - Part 14

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Tue, 08 Sep 2015 10:14:00 +0000

Behind the Iron Curtain

Today my blog comes right up to date as I am on a plane to Tbilisi, Georgia, and one the few wine countries I haven't yet visited personally. It's a long trip; six hours, all in and we couldn't fly direct. This is a significant trip as this region was the birthplace of wine, just 8,000 years ago. Which must be about as long as our known western civilisation. Surely that cannot be a coincidence? Could it not mean our ancestors were only able to become civilised – or maybe only able to put up with having to become civilised – until after a little wine. Today's young lycra-wearing doctors would do well to reflect on this. See things more holistically, chaps, just like the old doctors did. Wine has proved its usefulness to man since almost forever.

Looking down on the Black Sea, we are sipping the in-flight red and thinking "this looks promising". This actual wine could be described as a dark fruit soup … with extra black; it has stained the inside of the cup. Yes, not glass … cup! Primitive maybe … but primitive with potential.

My companion – and minder – today is the UK's current 'Wine Buyer of the Year' Beth Willard, who, amongst other parts, looks after Eastern Europe for us. Is Georgia even in Europe? Not sure. This is a very long flight east, and over on the right, that could be Iraq … or Iran! Gulp.

Don't panic. We are here at the invitation of the Georgian Government eager to find new markets for their wines now that the traditional trade with their big northern neighbour has been blocked by battle tanks in the roads. They get in the way so, do tanks! Gulp again! But Beth speaks fluent Russian so we'll be all right.

As a result of those army tanks the wine tanks of Georgia are currently full to overflowing. So word was got out to Hugh Johnson. Well, who else? To come and save the Georgian wine growers. But Hugh was busy, and he's been before. "So off you go, lad" he said, (seeing me always as the Gromit to his Wallace). And here we are.

My mind cannot help travelling back what … 40 years to my first flight into the unknown East, travelling in a Balkan Airways slightly-converted bomber; it still had the perspex blisters where the guns had been. Their wine was pretty rich too, and safer than tea from the steaming iron kettle brought round by muscular soviet attendants. My then companion – one Patrick Carter, now Lord Carter – had, for some reason, been invited over to look at their tractors and, as a friend from college, I had tagged along to look at their wine. We were going to peer – nervously – behind the Iron Curtain.

The wine wasn't going to be too hard to locate as Bulgarian wine was a state monopoly so there was only one sales office. I sat in reception at 5 Lavele Street (an address permanently engraved on my brain) for days until the Commissaire for Wines – or whatever – at Vinimpex agreed to see me. And say "Niet".

Rather a useless trip, I thought. Until somehow, shortly after, word of my interest got round and a man from a well-known brand of cola asked to meet me in London. It seems he had just sold a lot of his cola to Bulgaria and, as was the tradition in those days, been paid by barter. He now owned rather a lot of Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon, and didn't know what to do with it. So I took it off his hands at an excellent price. We shipped a full container - about a thousand cases - of 'Balkan Vine' Cabernet Sauvignon. It took a while to arrive as the ship's steering jammed and our wine spent several days going round in circles in the Black Sea.

However it was great success. And more containers followed. Then more. Then masses. The quality, amazingly, held up. I went back to see how they did it. The wine came from what to me looked like a co-operative in a place called Suhindol. It had been built on co-op lines by the French in the 1930's. They had also planted mile after mile of Cabernet vineyard in suitable gravelly soil. I had seen nothing like wine production on this scale in Europe – only in California – and I started referring to Bulgaria as Europe's California. In Europe – and this is still true – if you want to make a big mass market wine you have to buy many bits and pieces of wine from wherever you can and stick them together as best you can. Here was just one huge vineyard and one huge winery so it was not so surprising that they could do a proper, good solid job.

The guys in the winery were wine people just like wine people anywhere. They took pride in their work and loved opening their special bottles – secreted away from their bosses in Sofia – for Tim Bleach, who helped me with buying, and I, when we visited. We discovered more such wineries and expanded the range to include Chardonnay, Riesling, Merlot and great Bulgarian varietals like Mavrud.

My other memories are of empty shops, people sitting around in empty fields drinking hot plum brandy from thermos flasks, because centralised planning said that they should be there and stay there, even though there were no crops. Also there were military uniforms everywhere. Mostly, though, I remember good wine-producing friends who welcomed us into their world, which they somehow kept enjoyable and producing good stuff despite all the madness around.

What, I am wondering will I find in Georgia? For many years several well-travelled customers have told me I should come here, but somehow it never happened until now. We are landed. To be continued ...

My Life in Wine - Part 13

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Wed, 02 Sep 2015 13:25:00 +0000

Sail away, sail away, sail away

The Astrid's Cargo

Much of the dinner conversation with the Cassins concerned the history between Bordeaux and the UK. I realised I was lucky in that Bordeaux and its surrounding regions – Aquitaine – are the most Anglophile part of France. In all my years there, I don't recollect ever being on the receiving end of the sort of rudeness our British journalists regularly dish out to France.

Every year the good people of Castillon re-enact the Battle of Castillon, 1453, which ended the 100 Years War, but they always remind everyone that they were actually on our side! This wasn't really a fight between the French and the English but between rival groups of French-speaking aristocrats, one of whom happened to sit on the English throne. The battle re-enactment makes it clear that the people of this region were very much on the side of the English King who, in response to a plea from the harassed 'Anglo Gascons' sent over an army. Unfortunately it was led by a 70-year-old general, rather past his best. And that was that.

Why the loyalty? Well, the King of England was also the Duke of Aquitaine and had been for hundreds of years. But really it was all down to … wine.

We, in our damp islands have always been noted for our excessive love of wine. Well, booze of any kind, really. It’s not a new thing. In the 12th century we in Britain, apparently consumed as much Bordeaux wine as we do today. With a population of what … two million? This thirsty market kept Aquitaine in the money for centuries. Monsieur told me there was this annual fleet of fat bellied boats called 'cogs' that sailed down the great sea highway that ran across The Channel and down the west cost of France at vintage time. It is possible to surmise – though it won't win you friends in the region – that Bordeaux is not what it is today – the greatest region of fine wine on earth – necessarily because it makes the finest wines. It might just be because, for a thousand years, it was the handiest source of good red wine for the ever-thirsty British. My French friends say the 'GB' we stick on our cars stands for Geule de Bois or 'wood-throat'; a very dedicated drinker. They say it with admiration. They love us for our thirst.

The Bordeaux wine trade in its Medieval prime was the greatest trade, of any sort, the world had ever seen. Monsieur Cassin told me this, thus precipitating another of our mad schemes; we would re-enact that trade.

Hugh Johnson was keen to sail. Madame Cassin was keen; she had an ancestor who was a corsair. The customers seemed keen on some waterborne wine. So I went off to Cornwall, found an old Brigantine square rigger called the 'Marques' which had featured in 'The Onedin Line' on TV and chartered her.

We set sail, Hugh, me, Colin Forbes the nautical cameraman, and a scary-looking bunch of wild Cornishmen, from Charlestown, a tiny port which has featured in just about everything filmed with an old sailing boat in it. With a brisk northerly wind, we roared down the coast to Bordeaux in just two days. There, the bemused but willing dockers of Bordeaux packed 2000 cases of claret into her capacious hold. They packed them extremely well … and later we thanked God for that. Fully laden we sailed back past the Médoc – where we took on a few barrels as deck cargo – and on out into a dead calm sea. We sat there and waited for wind whilst diving and swimming with the porpoises. This is easy, we thought.

The first storm warning came as we neared Brest. So we took shelter for a couple of nights. Unfortunately time and money were running out and we had an appointment with a BBC film crew in Plymouth. So we decided to make a run for it.

The big storm hit as we emerged into the Channel and darkness fell. The captain lowered all sails except for the two jibs and we had no option but to run before the wind, up the Channel. The ship had no electricity and the oil lamps blew out. Like a ghost ship, we apparently crashed through a French fishing fleet. By then, Hugh and I, believing our final hour might have come – and me only married a month – had got down into the focs'le with two bottles of extremely fine Cognac, a fortuitous gift from our friend, old Marcel Ragnaud.

In the cold wet light of morning there was no more Cognac. There were no more sails, only shreds, and a lot fewer barrels on deck; gone overboard. But we were still all alive and Colin, who was used to filming Southern Ocean races was having the time of his life. Me, I watched every towering swell, the size of a block of flats, bearing down on us, convinced this one would be the one to overwhelm us. But no, up we bobbed, every time, steady as could be, ballasted by 24,000 bottles of claret. Some years later, the poor old Marques did capsize, and sank off Bermuda with much loss of life. That time there was no wine ballast.

This time we got away with it as we nipped into the shelter of Torbay, and I started to breathe again. Alas the BBC were in Plymouth and had gone elsewhere by the time we sailed in after the storm. So we missed the hoped-for news feature. But we did unload every single bottle intact. And that meant 2000 happy customers.

But … never again.

The Astrid

… until 1991, that is, when for some inexplicable reason we did it again, on the 'Astrid'; another ship which, some years later, sank, off Ireland.

The Irene arriving in London

… and then once more in 2010 on the 'Irene'. That time the weather in The Channel was lovely. But over a two week voyage we somehow managed to get through four captains. Talk about Mutiny on the Bounty!

Unloading the Irene

Sailing with wine is not straightforward.

The Irene's cargo, safe and sound

Are we mad? Certainly.

We have also chartered bigger, luxurious, sailing ships and loaded customers on as well as wine. On these voyages there was always extensive damage done to the wine cargo. But the passengers were fine … and very, very happy.

All this, inspired by a fascination with the Bordeaux Trade. A fascination which hasn't gone away yet! If anyone knows of a nice old sailing ship with a large empty hold, and some mad people …

My Life in Wine - Part 12

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Mon, 24 Aug 2015 12:52:00 +0000

Sainte Colombe

Trapped with the rioting farmers in Narbonne, and not sure if they'd take kindly to an English wine merchant, every road was barricaded – which is easy to do there on account of every road is an avenue of huge trees, so they'd chop a few down – except on the tiny, winding treeless road to the hills … which I knew, and took and fled back to Bordeaux … and quiet little Sainte Colombe.

There, life continued on gently as always, and we decided it was where we should stay even if we bought more wine from other regions. So we set up an office there. Monsieur got us this small house at La Clarière, which as things turned out, ensured we stayed based in the village permanently. He set up an office run by a nice, young village girl called Claudy Gomme to coordinate ordering and shipping wines from all our French suppliers. Monsieur liked spending time with Claudy – his 'danseuse' Madame would say – jokingly, of course – Claudy had, after all, been to ballet school. She did a great job and stuck at it for 35 years! She even became Madame Le Maire of her village. Having someone who can bridge that gap between the English order office and French wine farmer is essential. It’s not so much the language difference as the different interpretations of words. For example, the word 'Today' has a fairly precise meaning for a shipping office, but for a small winegrower in France, it is a much vaguer concept altogether. Claudy had ways of sorting that out.

So although I was now journeying far and wide, I found myself back in Ste Colombe very regularly.

To see Claudy, and get more long lectures from Monsieur. Usually over a meal.

The scene is etched in memory; the three of us, Madame on my left, closest to the kitchen and the large fireplace, in charge of food. He to my right in charge of the wine. The round, polished oak table. Everything gleaming. Old cutlery with the blades of the knives resting on tiny trestles. Ordinary cheap water glasses, but ancient wine glasses, thick glass, straight sides. Except for special occasions when the fine glassware came out. Which meant about six glasses each, and as many wines.

But you'd be amazed at the frugality of the servings. I was at first. I was British and Brits like me mostly gulp our wine. Properly brought up Bordeaux people do not gulp. They only sip. They sip, look thoughtful for a while, then, eventually, swallow. Furthermore, Monsieur would only ever pour wine AFTER we'd started eating, NEVER before, Because, he said, his wine was only red, and this red wine is only ever drunk with food because it is a dry, tannic wine. On its own, its tannins can pebble-dash your mouth … which is not agréable. But when you've already had some meat or cheese the wine seems to sweeten, and the drying tannins just vanish (something to do with a reaction between tannins and the amino acids in meat and cheese, apparently) and the wine will then slip down parfaitement, as Monsieur taught me.

When he poured a glass, he poured no more than an eighth of a glass! First time, I thought he was flattering me; asking me to check it to see if it was corked. I'd seen them do that in restaurants. So I downed it in one swig, and started nodding that it was perfectly fine … and looking expectant. Nothing doing; that small serving was IT! The bottle remained untouched for ages before Monsieur poured again.

We drank plenty of water though. Spring water from the pump. At this table it was water for your thirst, wine for your pleasure and of course your health. But toujours in moderation. I had to learn this. The lesson was a hard one but I suspect the moderation training might have helped me stay alive, while working in the wine game for 50 years.

There were a lot of theatrics whenever a really old bottle was pulled out. It was put on the mantelpiece for a couple of days for the sediment to settle to the bottom. Then, the candle was lit and placed to shine through the neck of the bottle.

The pouring was very, very slow, and into a decanter, stopping when the copious sediment was seen to reach the bottle’s neck. 'Rustic' would be the description most critics would give this wine. It was certainly made in a rustic sort of way. The bottle glass was totally encrusted with sediment and there was a deep sludge at the bottom. But I loved it. Wine with nothing taken out! Filtration? Pah! For Softies. On any building site the guys like tea you can stand a spoon up in. Well, this is similar. And you could taste all those years spent in its damp earthy cellar … and the mud from the clogs of the man who stomped on the grapes to squeeze more into the wooden duys (buckets) at harvest. They call it 'Terroir'. It certainly was then! But it was magnificent, rugged stuff, wine that would never die, liquid history, the wines often older than Monsieur himself.

Everyone else in the village, mind you, as true paysans, drank more … much more. Well, the men did. The working men, the artisans of Sainte Colombe and well … most of France, were all alcoholics according to some, and two litres of wine a meal was not uncommon. National average consumption was then over 200 litres p.a. … exclude the babes and teetotallers and it’s plain many went well over that. It showed in their bright red faces and big warty, purple noses. But their wives were not drinkers. Most Ste Colombe wives, in fact, did not drink wine at all. I never really understood that … except they lived long lives, whilst their husbands didn't.

While parsimonious, moderate Monsieur kept the wine bottle out of my reach and pushed the water jug towards me, little Madame, a ball of energy, would be bobbing up and down attending to the food.

Le Dejeuner – La Soupe – was the big meal of the day. Le diner in the evening was relatively modest. Dejeuner was at least five courses followed by coffee. Soup, hors d'oeuvres, main, salad, cheese, dessert. On her stove Madame kept a big stockpot. It was always there … ten litres at least, filled with vegetables ,bones, herbs and all sorts . Constantly replenished. Her domestique, Yvette, (an enthusiastic exception to the non-drinking wives club) would put it on low heat all morning and Madame would then take ladlefuls to combine with tomatoes, potatoes, vermicelli, or whatever she planned to make her soup of that day. Different every day. The recipes were many and varied but always finished off with a great lump of butter. I have never since had soups that tasted so good anywhere.

There was a special black soup you got in winter when they killed the pig. Guimbora (pron. jim bora). Amazingly rich, it was, apparently, mostly blood. Guimbora time was when you met the village and you saw how important it was then for villages to be a real community. Because every household raised a pig that would live in a sty by the house and eat all the scraps and such. Quite sensible really as there were no green bins back then. No bins at all. Anyway, when you kill a pig you get masses of meat all at once. There were no freezers so you would salt-cure the hams and other meaty bits, and hang them from the rafters in linen bags. That left the guts and blood that could not be conserved but were much too nourishing to waste. So what you would do is co-operate and swap. When Madame Trepout killed her pig word went round the village (probably everyone heard the poor thing being despatched anyway) and that evening after Madame had slaved all day over the carcass, someone from every family, a child or youth, would turn up at her door with a jug. This was then filled with the blood soup; full of beans and vegetables, and very peppery and – once you get your head adjusted to the blood bit – utterly delicious. The child also took home a pack of black puddings or boudins noirs. More blood. The whole village feasted on that pig's innards. But people who work out in the winter vineyards all day maybe steering a horse plough constantly in and out between vines (far, far harder than straight-line ploughing) need very solid nourishment. The following week it might be Madame Parinet who killed. So we'd all share her pig's innards. And so it would go on round the village; every household, every pig. I got sent out with the jug only once. Back then, I had long, curly hair. Entering the steaming kitchen full of yakking wives in misted glasses, I got greeted with a 'Bonjour Mademoiselle' by the harassed cook. Shrieks of mirth all round. Then weeks of village kids bawling “Ooh La La! Mademoiselle Tonee".

After soup there were the hors d'oeuvres of course; could be a salad, endive or nicoise, or tomato and shallot or perhaps beetroot and shallot salad. Or paté – foie gras for special occasions only – or soused herring or … an endless variety.

The main course would often be a chicken from the yard, head and feet still on. Duck was, of course, also common … as confit or magret or aiguillettes. Steak was a bit special. The dining room fireplace was important, less for its warmth, more for the grillades. Mostly Entrecote Bordelaise to which the people of this region are devoted. This involved not a fire as such but a 'sarment', and there was a ritual – Madame's ritual. She loved putting on her show. Monsieur and I loved to watch it … and not just us, people came from far and wide for this performance.

(The sarment is a bundle of vine cuttings; last year's thin shoots, tied with willow. Willow was, and for some still is, what growing vines are tethered with. You still see rows of willow stumps dotted around the vineyards sprouting bright yellow shoots. These shoots are harvested every summer and put into streams to soak so they become pliable enough to knot.)

The Show; the sarment just fits in the big fireplace, and is lit by Madame with a crumpled sheet of newspaper. She spreads the rest of the paper in front of the fire to catch dripping fat. The sarment blazes fiercely only a minute or two then dies to a thin covering of glowing red embers giving off a sweet dried herbs sort of aroma. A large iron grill with a long handle and four short legs is plonked on to clean and sterilise. Madame wipes the red hot grill to remove the last of the old grease and rust with more of the newspaper and lies the grill before the fire on the paper.

One very large, very thick steak with plenty veins of fat is slapped on the hot grill. It just about covers it. Tiny, whippet-fit little Madame then arranges the embers and lifts the grill over them. Oh the aroma! I can smell it now. It doesn't grill for long; they like their meat rare here. When she turns the meat she spoons on a generous layer of raw, chopped shallots, that ooze into the crevices of the meat … then she seasons with sea salt and fresh ground pepper. The timing is immaculate; though Madame doesn't worry about overcooking because the embers quickly lose their heat and the steak then sits relaxing and soaking up more shallot juice while we do likewise with a little wine. The steak is cut up and served. Frites are the only accompaniment. Oh my! Oh my! I would drive 500 miles – then, of course, 500 more … back – just for that steak. And I did for forty years. For Madame's steak and Monsieur's wisdom. There you have the real reasons I – we – never really left Ste. Colombe. Wouldn't get very far on Dragons Den with that as a business plan, would I?

My Life in Wine - Part 11

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Mon, 17 Aug 2015 15:42:00 +0000

Discovering the Midi

Jean Gaichet made our first Epervier label wine, decades ago. He lived high and remote in a tiny village in the Corbières, I forget exactly where. Even Dubernet had trouble finding his little house. Jean had said to look for a door covered with wild-boar hooves. The problem was, every door had these grisly decorations; it was the local hunting-trophy tradition. But one door was absolutely covered and that was Monsieur Gaichet. A crack shot? Not necessarily. Just old … and a survivor.

My son Henry was once – only once – drawn into one of these wild boar hunts. Being young and fit, he went with the other lads to find the sanglier – wild pigs – and push them up towards the guns. The older men had the rifles. They went up early to the ridge, with ham, cheese, bread and plenty wine … and settled to a good, long breakfast. By the time the pigs arrived those old guys were very happy, and their shooting was not the best. Any movement in the undergrowth got a full volley from crazy, old, red-faced men. Henry lived to tell the tale but he never volunteered again.

Old Monsieur Gaichet had a lovely wine to sell that year. But not the next, or ever again. People think warmer regions like the Midi have nothing but good vintages. That is fairly true of some parts but the higher vineyards have very irregular vintages, and higher costs, which is why so many have gone out of production.

An Epervier winegrower I got know better was Jean Cabrol … who lived in the lovely village of Minerve, from which the northern Minervois district takes its name. Minerve is perched on a high sliver of rock where two deep river canyons meet. From his tiny back yard there was a sheer drop to where far below you could see one river disappearing underground into a great cave. This is real limestone country. 100 metres away were his vineyards but the poor man had to go miles to the next village, where there was a bridge over the ravine, to get to them.

The Cabrols were poor – everyone was – they lived on what they caught or shot or grew or culled from the earth – rabbit, hare, herbs, snails, frogs. They ate well, though. I will never forget that aroma of wild rabbit in a wild-garlic sauce that wafted out of Chez Cabrol on my first visit. Their house was tiny and sat on top of the wine cellar which was only four small tanks … but was all very neat and clean. He did maceration carbonique which had been the tradition here for centuries, where grape bunches are not crushed or even de-stalked but tipped whole into the vats. Dubernet explained that unfortunately for Madame Cabrol, the matrimonial double-bed which almost filled the tiny bedroom, lay above the trap into a tank. At harvest time grapes had to come in through that bedroom window and old Jean would have to prop their bed up on a slant, so as to get his grapes through the trap and then tend to the bubbling ferments below … throughout the night. La mere Cabrol just had to put up with it.

A local paper sent a photographer to capture the Cabrols and me doing business. A British merchant was news in those days. Their rooms were too small and dark, so we had to carry their table outside into the light. You can see in the picture Madame was not wildly amused by that either. Suffered a lot did Madame Cabrol.

These days the small independent farmers like Gaichet and Cabrol are far fewer in number and likely to get fewer. Making a living on less than 1000 litres a hectare is almost impossible (when Bordeaux, for example does around 6000 litres per hectare.) Every time I go back I see more patches of vines have been abandoned. An abandoned vineyard is not a pretty sight. Nature will quickly heal the scars on the land but you can't help thinking of all the generations of backbreaking effort that had been put into that piece of land by nut-brown, sinewy guys and sturdy women in bonnets. My friend Andrée got a painting from a local artist, Max Savy. We got it made into a lovely poster.

We wanted to do whatever we could to show customers that wine isn't all about châteaux and grand estates. These small growers have a hard life, but they are like their vines; they just hang on in there as long as they can.

Jean-Charles Duran is perhaps our current favourite. Like Cabrol, his cellar is tiny and lies below the family home, a terraced house on the main street in Maury, in the Roussillon district. Still young – thirty something, I guess – with a young family, he finds his life quite a struggle. He doesn't have a lot of vineyard and it is pretty remote. He'd had to give up his tractor when I last called in, and his wife had to stop helping him on the farm, and get paid work in the supermarket. But J-C still carries on, by hand, because he still believes his land is special and his gnarly great centenarian vines, to him, are old friends. Also, there’s his Mum and Dad to consider. They still help out. He can’t really abandon the family farm, can he?

Last time we went the old man had been out all night after the rains. We all feasted on the escargots he'd found, grilled in garlic butter over glowing vine embers. Sitting around in his garage … it was still raining. His friend, our Mark Hoddy, will age and bottle his wine for him (because he just can’t afford the kit needed to do a good job). Our customers, thankfully, are very faithful to his wine. Though none I suspect know quite how hard Jean-Charles must labour in what are the hottest vineyards of France, with that ever-present, Tramontane wind trying to drive everyone mad. His Un Vent de Folie is a triumph over almost insurmountable odds.

Mark & JC in his vineyard

As I've said, co-operative wineries do help the smaller winegrowers to survive. Jean Charles was a co-operateur at the Maury cellar where we get what is now one of our biggest selling wines, the 'XV du President', a big fifteen degree Grenache red. They and we do very well with this wine, our customers adore it. But co-operatives too are vulnerable. We first found the strong XV wine at another co-op; in the village of Opoul, just down the road. But Opoul got things slightly wrong (they stayed focused too much on making their sweet aperitif VDN wines when the market for that style had all but vanished). The cellar had to close … over ten years ago. A very sad day for a village which had nothing else. Some of the growers started to take their grapes to Maury, so we followed.

But there are happier stories. There is a small dirt track that runs north from Opoul up into the empty hills and for miles across the border into the Corbières. At the other end it comes down into the Vallée du Paradis and the village of Embres … or Castelmaure. I forget which. Doesn't matter, they share a co-op that could well have gone the way of Opoul, but hasn't … and is, in fact, remarkably successful. Why? People. Two people; the coop President, Patrick de Marien and its Directeur, Bernard Pueyol.

Embres et Castelmaure, again, have nothing in the joint village but their winery. If that closes, the villages die. Houses fall into ruin or become holiday homes for foreigners. Dubernet, all those years ago, reckoned this is what would happen here because the place was just too remote. But these two stubborn guys decided they would not let that happen.

Bernard

I remember Bernard – who is a large, bearded, friendly guy – showing me with great pride his computer; one of those very first Apples. On this he said he was going to map every single patch of vines in the village. He was going to note its soil and rock, (this part of the world, crushed between the old Massif Central and the 'new' Pyrenees, is a geologists paradise with all sorts of rocks and soils all scrunched up). He said he would then note the grape varieties planted, their ages and condition … and then keep a record of the qualities of the wine each patch produced every year. With his data, he would advise the grower if it might be good to change things or just improve. He saw this gradual lifting of standards and development of styles as many years’ work and indeed it has proved to be his life's work.

Patrick, for his part, decided he would work at livening up the way the growing range of different styles of wines would be presented. Cooperatives, when they get around to bottling their own wine do not usually do labels with any great flair. But go to Embres et Castelmaure today – and I would encourage that – and you will be amazed by all the wild and wonderful labels and boxes in their shop. Masses of flair. Many devotees from all over now find their way up to the Vallée du Paradis – and that ain't easy – and it seems to me the future of the village, as a thriving colony of hard-working small winegrowers is as assured as it ever could be. I am proud to have helped them just a little. And thrilled by such clear evidence that devotion to the pursuit of quality can really pay off.

The very first Midi wine I bought came from the co-op of Berlou in the St Chinian district. Today we buy from the next village and co-op to Berlou, Roquebrun, which is having huge success these days with wine from that same schist soil.

Roquebrun

When I was at the International Wine Challenge collecting our award as Wine Merchant of the Year – did I mention that? – I was able to meet up with Alain Rogier the directeur of Roquebrun who was up for Winemaker of the Year. I was almost more pleased for him than I was for me. To lead a remote Midi cooperative from its usual obscurity to where it is today you have got to be a genius level winemaker – and he is. You also have got to be a great leader of men and women, because the co-operateurs don't work for the Directeur … he works for them! That's the co-operative way … and can lead to anarchy. But not here, Alain's cellar at Roquebrun, Saint-Chinian is now up there for the top award, vying with the wealthy, great estates of Bordeaux, Burgundy, Napa, Barossa … everywhere.

I have shipped Midi wines since 1971. I believe I was the first, maybe second, wine merchant – of any nationality – to drive round those geologically mixed up hills and dig out totally unknown wines from places where special soils – schists of various colours, limestone, granite, gravels of all sorts – could produce extraordinary results. My customers loved the wines immediately. They were very cheap then. Now a top cuvee from say, Roquebrun, can easily be £12.99 or so, but … they taste way more wonderful than they were. They are really worth it. And they need to be because the growers must get a reasonable return to survive.

Monsieur Dubernet would be so proud …he started all this.

Marc Dubernet continues his father's work and fights the same battles against what he calls the New-style Industrial Wines. These are now from vast acreages of Chardonnay, Merlot and Cabernet planted in the Midi … on valley-floor flat land; machine pruned and machine harvested. What they make is far better than the Old-style Industrial Wines (which haven't entirely gone away) but for me these 'International' style wines lack the magic of the unique, characterful and very human wines from the ancient vineyards. Luckily, surprising numbers of customers seem to agree.

The Midi has always done well for us in particular. Not any particular wine, but lots of them, good healthy wines of character. And delivered with no pomposity. Things have improved some for Midi growers generally, but they do still live on the edge.

The wine riots could kick off again. That evening in Narbonne thirty years ago when a gendarme and a winegrower had been shot dead, and huge crowds were sacking the council offices, throwing filing cabinets down on to great fires in the street just by the railway station … I'll not forget that. They'd smashed the taps off Jean Demolombe's great tanks and made the canal turn red. I just wanted out of there. But they had blocked every road with trees.

Not always a gentle, jolly, sitting around laughing game, is wine!

My Life in Wine - Part 10

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Mon, 10 Aug 2015 11:47:00 +0000

From Bordeaux to the Midi

Although I did the Bordeaux Run for many years, the van, or vans – I wore out two – now had to take me further, to many more places. The first Sunday Times Wine Club Members seemed more demanding than our gentle, contented Bordeaux Direct customers who were generally so contented, charming and easy to talk to. BD always supplied a large number of vicars. What does that say about us? (However, whenever we surveyed customers and asked what they did for a living, the biggest group by far, was always doctors. Which is interesting isn't it? Considering how today's doctors are always banging on about how we shouldn't really drink at all. So doctors have changed maybe? We must do another survey sometime).

Anyway, a much greater range of wine was demanded by the new 'Clubbers'. So off I went … different parts of France to start with. (Which is the ground already covered in what became my first – and so far only – book, 'Laithwaite's Great Wine Trek' – a collection of letters from various parts of France that I wrote to customers over a number of years).

Some regions produced more 'winners' than others. But I tried them all. I like to brag that I 'bagged' every wine region in France. If you look at the map of France in 'The World Atlas of Wine' (page 47 in the current edition) you will get an idea of how many there are. And there are actually more than shown. I've 'done' everything within the five corners of French 'Hexagone', from the French Moselle in the far north , round past Toul – (near Nancy), Allobroglie in the Alps, Bellet above Nice, Banyuls on the Spanish Border, Irouleguy in Basque Country, to the Fiefs Vendeens on the Atlantic Coast. ...and everything in between.

Been there, bought the wines. Smug.

But I have to admit this turned out not to be a commercial thing. Customers are mostly quite conservative. In the day, all they ever asked for was Beaujolais. Which I would never sell, being a perverse sort of person. (I did sell 'Villages' Beaujolais which were and are much nicer and more genuine) So I didn't give the customers what they wanted – as they say you have to – so I didn't make any money. But as I said before, I thought making money in the wine business was impossible anyway. The Enjoyment of the Hunt was my 'payment'. And I particularly loved hunting down rare and tiny wine regions. The 'Great Little Wine Regions of France' (actually the title of a book by a sweet, elderly American called Basil Woon – from Colorado – who called in at the Windsor Arch one day) were so incredibly welcoming; they'd never seen a wine merchant before. And their wines were often quite amazing. Just only known to the locals. Unfortunately my customers were just not very interested. Barbara was quietly resigned to this profitless obsession … for the moment.

On the other hand, the biggest and most successful French region for me was the Midi, the regions of the Languedoc and Roussillon. It still is, and to this day provides us with more wine than most wine countries. Not an area I'd ever heard of, it was my Bordeaux suppliers who told me to go there. I clearly remember old man Bourlon, exasperated, crying; "Tonee! Arretez! Stop asking always for cheaper wine. Any Bordeaux wine cheaper than ours will only be cheaper because it has something wrong with it. If you must have cheaper wine, go to the Midi, and go see Dubernet."

I was always asking for cheaper, because I was always finding my Bordeaux wines were a bit dearer than many established competitors. But many of these cheap Bordeaux, I did eventually understand, came from suppliers that were very different to the people I bought from. Massive merchant factories (with no vineyards) blending stuff day and night, from far and wide in huge volumes and immediately shovelling out truck after truck of wine that didn't taste like I wanted it … didn’t taste like real Bordeaux. I wanted to stick with my kind of dedicated, obsessed, passionate winegrowers. I insisted on only grower bottled wines. Not only were the wines nicer, these were wines made with loving care, things generally, were more exciting with these people.

So I set off for the Midi on a route that became very familiar; up the Dorgogne, past Cahors to Gaillac (good for a basic white wine) through Albi and over the Montagne Noir where suddenly the countryside goes from green fields and cows to dry scrubby bushes and pointy cypress trees … and then on through the endless Mediterranean vineyards to old Narbonne where Dubernet had his wine practice.

Dubernet was a good choice, a great man was Jean Dubernet. He was a top Bordeaux oenologist (a wine vet, if you like) trained by Peynaud. A rising star, he suddenly abandoned the comfy life of consulting to the great Bordeaux Chateaux and headed to the wild south, "to make a real difference". He spoke quietly amongst the noisy, shouty, violent men of the Midi but nonetheless revolutionised winemaking in the region, which is - certainly was, then - the largest wine producing area in the world.

The very first vineyards in France were planted here, with vines probably brought by galley from the Middle East. The hillsides near the coast still have their terracing – mostly now abandoned – for vines. Vineyards always on the steep slopes where only vines survive, with the flatter more fertile land for food crops was the general rule. Those wines, one imagines, were really rather good.

Then some idiot imported a bunch of American vines which contained the little louse Phylloxera which destroyed almost every vineyard in Europe. This at a time when every working man in southern Europe was putting away litres of the stuff every meal. So suddenly … no wine! Winegrowers worked out that they could graft their vines on to louse resistant rootstock, but of course that took time and the population was going mental. Whoever could get back into production first would make a fortune.

There then occurred something like a liquid gold-rush. Ruined winegrowers from all over France figured out that they would be better off moving to the vast spaces of the Midi, where land was cheap and sunshine plentiful, and there planting something, anything, American hybrids, whatever, that produced loadsawine FAST! Never mind the quality. The desperate market would drink ANYTHING vaguely winelike. Vast fortunes were quickly made. The lower parts of the Midi countryside are still dotted with vast mansions and châteaux, built in the nineteenth century by the more successful new wine barons, oligarchs of their day, who got there first, planted all the land they could and really churned it out. It was vin ordinaire; those five star, metal capped, litre bottles which we Brits took to calling 'plonk'. It stained your teeth, 'le vin qui tache' … it stained your clothes! Dubernet called it Industrial Wine and hated it.

I'd assumed it would be something like plonk that I'd be getting from the Midi. At that time in Britain it had become quite cool to drink ordinaire. The big guys were importing wines in litres with plastic caps called Vieux Ceps, Carafino or Hirondelle.

But Dubernet had other ideas. He would take me on his rounds, in his trusty Citroen DS, drive me up into the hills to odd, small villages that looked ruined but still supported plenty of life. He picked four wines for me. Berlou; a village high in the St Chinian hills which has strange purple 'soil', just flakes of prettily coloured mica, really. But vines do miracles in it. Not much else does. Anyway this schist stuff produced with little human help, a low acid, non-bitter, not tannic and therefore 'round' red wine. With no need for expensive barrel-ageing it produced a what they call gouleyant , rich, purple-ish wine. Customers adored it immediately. It was cheap, too.

Then there was Château de Luc in a village of the same name; a vast semi-ruin, that made a gentle, brownish wine, a bit oxidised from being made in gigantic old wooden cask … a thing the size of a house.

Then there was this shop in Fabrezan where the village pharmacist made a really juicy-fruit Maceration Carbonique red. None of these wines were made with anything special in the way of grapes. Not 'noble' grapes. Cinsault, Carignan, maybe a bit of Grenache. Replanting to produce better wines was way beyond people's means, back then. They had to do the best they could with whatever they had. And Dubernet was there to help.

The fourth wine was called Château de Durban. I didn't see a château though there was a ruin somewhere. The wine was from the co-op (which has since closed). Again it was a mac carb wine. I took the plunge (in those days I had no one around to tell me it was too risky) and bought 300 cases of each. They filled an artic. They filled the arch. There's this photo of me in there with cases towering around.

That was mostly these Midi wines. And they went down so well with the customers. They were at a good price and people just loved that easy style. You didn't have to cellar these wines. Splash them into a jug ...what they do in the Midi bars.

But the most significant thing with these wines was that they didn't sell them in bottles. I'd go so far as to say that back then, no-one in this whole vast region sold wine by the bottle. I find that hard to believe myself these days when everywhere you go there are estates with signs saying vente direct, degustation gratuit, and when wineries have shops that would look fine in Mayfair. No, back then it was purely bulk wine. Almost all this wine left the region in a rail tanker on trains which were maybe a mile long...a mile of wine. They went to Paris and the north. Got bottled there.

There was one local bottling centre, big old steam driven thing and that's where Dubernet got my wine taken and bottled … and then exported. No-one had ever done this before! (We are talking 1972.) Winegrowers selling wine in bottles was totally new. Therefore the deals available were wonderful.

But Jean warned me … it could be hit and miss. Next year maybe these wines wouldn't be so good … but others would. There would always be something good in such a vast place. Trick was, to find it. So we drew this weird-shaped wine label and made a brand called L'Epervier or 'sparrow hawk'. You see these little birds hovering all over the region, looking for a juicy morsel. And that for me was what Monsieur Dubernet did, and also his partner in the practice, Old Monsieur Demolombe and his wild son, Jean – who became a very great friend. And Jean's assistant, and then successor Andrée Ferrandiz, who continued to find wines for me ' till she retired two years ago. She still phones occasionally to tip me off about some new wine she's heard about. Customers followed the weird-shaped label. The wines changed. Every year there would be a new name and village … and style. But all were produced to an impeccable standard. By passionate men.

I was lost in this vast region – that I came to love even more than Bordeaux – and I always would be … anybody would be. Even Hugh's Midi map had little detail. The region's wines just were not mapped. So I had to have these helpers, my hawks.

From this point on, the 'Bordeaux Direct' name became somewhat misleading. However it was many years before we plucked up the courage to change it.

I could, I suppose have bought Mid wines bottled in Bordeaux. Saved myself many long drives. But it would not have been the same. Bordeaux merchants would tanker in a lot of Midi wines. Whether they sold them as Midi wines, however, was another matter. As the weaker Midi ordinaires were always 'improved' in the old days by rich red imports from Algeria, so the Bordeaux merchants knew that pale, poor vintage Bordeaux could be made more saleable by blending in a good rich Corbières … is what my disapproving Bordeaux winegrowing friends would tell me. The authorities knew this and did their best to control provenance, to make it impossible to move wine without permission. Every shipment, every truck, had to be accompanied by papers that detailed what went from where to where and on what day. There were road blocks and checks. And prison.

But ways round could be found. I have no idea if it was true but they told me about 'the motorbike thing': Early morning, a full tanker would leave Beziers with correct, stamped and dated papers and be in Bordeaux around noon. Its papers would immediately be handed to a biker who would rush them back to Beziers, where a second tanker would set off with the same correct papers to arrive before midnight. Le voila. Within the specified 24 hours, a whole extra tanker of good, untraceable Midi wine with which to improve or stretch a less than wonderful Bordeaux.

It’s all changed now of course.

My Life in Wine - Part 9

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Mon, 03 Aug 2015 16:34:00 +0000

Starting The Sunday Times Wine Club

To get our little business known, we did a lot of leafleting … by hand. That seemed to us the cheapest, most effective way of finding new customers. No way could we afford to advertise. So we would likely remain a small, local business, and were happy with that … truly. We still hoped to earn more money, as it was, literally a hand to mouth existence. A good sale and we’d blow it immediately on a meal over at Signor Pattochi’s 'La Taverna'. No sales and it was a bacon and egg butty at the Greasy Spoon. But we were young and in charge of our own destiny. Our bosses were our customers. And they were good to us. Almost always.

I said before it wasn't us deciding things. One day in '72, The Sunday Times did another exposé about fraud in the wine trade. Among more important campaigns, Harry Evans – the greatest editor of his day – had, with the great Nick Tomalin and the Insight team maintained a constant attack on wine fraud. At that time French Appellation Controlée (other countries didn't yet have such things) was not legally recognised in Britain. Many in the wine trade still maintained that names like Pommard and Châteauneuf du Pape were indicative of 'styles' rather than specific geographic locations. It had worked that way for centuries. However various bad lads were now going too far; shipping good old plonk and baptising it Beaujolais or Pommard or Châteauneuf or Pomerol or whatever … when it all came out of the same two tanks!

Maybe after a little too much wine that night, I composed a cheeky 'Dear Editor' letter, thanking the paper, and saying how it unfair it was, the St James lot living so well and us having to live in a damp packing case. Everything we sold was bottled by the people who made it, fully conforming to Appellation Controlée rules.

Harry Evans printed the whole letter! Even the address of our archway! I read it in a cubicle at a service station on the M6. My yell must've worried the other Gents. But we got, as a result, hundreds of letters expressing interest and support. We sent them all our very short wine list.

All very fine.

Then it went crazy. A customer of mine called Chris Dolly – a publisher – called to say he knew Harry Evans well and would ask him if we could do a Reader Offer … on one condition.

We were charmed by the plausibility of this Very Important Businessman. We were in our early 20's, both very naive, with no business training whatever, apart from Monsieur Cassin's little lectures. As Managing Director and Chairman of a very well known Publishing House, it did seem likely this man could help us to grow faster. He could name-drop for hours and he had a chauffeur! So at his request we sold him 20% of our business for the – to us – huge sum of £10,000. And off he went to The Sunday Times – bold as brass – and got them to let us do one of the reader offers they did with wine merchants for a mixed box of a dozen bottles, called an 'Instant Cellar'. (He didn't mention the packing case office in the old coal-arch.)

The offer worked a treat though. We sold, I think, three thousand cases! A stupendous number for us. Of course we couldn't handle that with a small van, a railway arch and a packing case. We ordered three or four big 40 foot artic's of wine, scrambled into the old NCL warehouse at Slough Station and worked packing and stacking, without sleep till we dropped. Of course it stretched us and our finances to breaking.

However, The Sunday Times, it seems had never had a wine offer go so well. So they asked us to do another. We repeated the exercise six months later … and it worked again!

So, on the strength of this, Mr Dolly, our Svengali pitched the paper to create a whole new concept … a Wine Club! As well as reader offers , there would be a Wine List and lots of other things going on to entertain and educate a public which was just getting interested in wine stuff. The newspaper went for it … even though by then they knew about the Railway Arch.

It was their guy Bruce Howell who did the site inspection. Luckily Bruce was as mad as us. We got on well. He told his bosses we were up to the job. He was a lot more confident than we were.

We quickly hired our first 'executives'; Martin Wright became Wine Club Manager, and Tim Bleach helped me buying and shipping. Both were fresh out of school. We moved ourselves from the Arch to 6,000 sq. feet of old World War I munitions factory (more recently a bra warehouse) in Slough. Lovely downtown Slough!

From 1973 to 1979 we traded there and the business grew alarmingly fast. But there was problem. Our Svengali became very critical of our ways and made it plain he thought we should sell out completely to him – he’d ensure we still had nice jobs but it was to be his Company!

But the business – now called Direct Wines (Windsor) Ltd on account of that earlier unpleasantness when another customer had registered the Bordeaux Direct name – was our baby. You don’t sell your baby. But he was determined to have it.

Our small team worked incredibly hard, particularly during the Christmas rush, and would always be dropping with exhaustion on Christmas Eve … our only break in the year. (We could never be ill any other time - there was just no time and anyway we were so high on adrenaline, but on Christmas Day we always went down with colds and ’flu!)

So it was on Christmas Eve just as we were finishing up, that he called to tell us we were technically insolvent and we had no choice but to sell. He actually had our Bank Manager waiting outside, to be brought in with papers to sign away the business when we capitulated.

We didn't, we wouldn't, but there was no Christmas that year! With help from our parents and Monsieur Cassin getting all our suppliers to give us extra months’ credit, we hung on.

Then luck again. (There really is no doubt of the need for a lot of luck in business.) Our Svengali got into some financial troubles of his own and badly needed to raise cash. Barbara and our legal mate David Wright negotiated I know not how, to buy back our shares for the same money he had paid - just £10,000!

We were free again!

Except for the Bank, of course.

The launch of The Direct Sunday Times Wine Club (we dropped the 'Direct' bit later to simplify) caused quite a stir. It was a joint venture. Almost at a stroke we became the second largest mail based wine retailer in the UK, after the 100 year old Co-operative Wine Society.

We even had a cartoon about us in Punch. And two Pseud’s Corner appearances in Private Eye for our rather original tasting notes.

Now who wrote those? When we were discussing the structure of the Club, the paper asked me who would be a good President. Only recently I’d been given the most revolutionary wine book ever seen, The World Atlas of Wine. Before 'The Atlas' we were all drinking blind. After the Atlas we could all see the whole great world of wine through those glorious maps, lovely photos and friendly, uncomplicated, riveting, beautiful, witty writing.

Whoever wrote this well was clearly the only choice for President of our new Club. He was, I told them called Hugh Johnson and was some ancient bearded guy – check out his photo that was on the cover of his first book, 'Wine' (another great read). He really looked the part.

So there we were, the newspaper and us, all signing papers in the Boardroom on top of Printing House Square – then at Blackfriars – and in walks this dapper laddie in a bow tie, clearly only a bit older than me and says "Hello, I'm Hugh Johnson". Well … I felt robbed! People had said I looked too young to be a proper wine merchant, so I was banking on a grand old, whiskery President to balance things.

But I could only smile back as the young chap beamed round at everyone. Turned out the old guy on the cover was the Maitre de Chai of Chateau Yquem who featured in the book. NB Always read captions properly! Anyway we welcomed him in and got him to say what he'd like his Club to do.

A lot, it seemed. He'd written all about wine, and had many theories, now he relished the chance of some practical stuff. He got so excited. But then he always does. Still does. I’ve never known anyone who lives at the fever pitch of constant excitement that H.J. does. Where does he get that energy? He kills me. Quite early on I had to take to leaving the phone off the hook, Sunday nights, just to get away from all that enthusiasm and get some sleep. I don’t think HJ does sleep! Writes all night, gardens all day.

We did far too much. All Hugh's fault. We went everywhere to find wine. If he'd mapped it he wanted us to ship some in for the Members. We ran Member's tours everywhere, we took over a thousand Members a year sometimes, everywhere from Champagne to the Napa Valley. We hired whole cruise ship stocked with 600 Members and unbelievable amounts of wine.

We went where no-one had ever been before to find wines … and took the Members with us. If not actually, then in print. We published a great little magazine, Wine Times, edited by Cyril Ray, Jancis Robinson. We started a great annual Wine Festival in London, and did tastings and dinners around Britain. All this was very new to a trade which had been quite sleepy for some time. God, where did I get the energy? From HJ!

Barbara and I also got married, up in Perth, in her village kirk with bagpipes, the Johnsons and massed wine growers. Being married meant we could talk business all night as well as all day.

Perhaps not the best of ideas. Except that I was now away so much. Half the year was traveling. I was now seriously on what became called 'Laithwaite's Great Wine Trek'… episodes published monthly, and eventually put together into a book. That was, I thought happily, to be the rest of my life.

My Life in Wine - Part 8

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Tue, 28 Jul 2015 10:09:00 +0000

Barbara

Today, July 26th, is our Ruby Wedding Anniversary and I am writing this while waiting to get on the overnight ferry to France. So? So Barbara and I find that relatively romantic, being as our wedding night was spent on the overnight sleeper from Perth to London along with a carriage full of French winegrowers who had been at the wedding whisky all day. And the ferry - read last week's episode - has long been central to our lives as people who live partly in England partly in France.

It was in 1971 the girl from Durham came back into my life. For some reason, we got on much better this time. Barbara had an amazing job compiling the TV audience viewing figures for publication but was disenchanted. She'd slave away to tally all the figures exactly, then her boss would tell her to do them again to show what the clients wanted to see. It seems statistics can be made to show whatever you want.

She'd come out to see me in Windsor and soon started telling me I was doing lots wrong. So, of course I said well if you're so clever, you come and do it, and would you believe it, she did. Everyone except her Dad said she was mad but she resigned her job and joined me....in my splendid new premises.

Railway Arch 36, Goswell Road, Windsor, is overlooked by the great walls of the Castle and hidden beneath the great viaduct Isambard Kingdom Brunel built to carry a spur of the Great Western Railway for Queen Victoria. Probably, Isambard didn't imagine the viaduct would also provide very convenient homes for all manner of small enterprises. (There were no custom-built starter premises available). There were woodworking shops, several engineering works, bodybuilders of the truck variety, garages and much else.

I got 1000 square feet that had been used by a coal man. Bit of a clean, bit of brickwork to make it secure and... luxury, bloody luxury.

Events had led me there. I had, early on, the strong feeling that I was not directing Bordeaux Direct; my business, but that it was directing me...a feeling that has stayed with me ever since. Things would happen that would firmly indicate a direction. If you are fundamentally lazy, following is easier than fighting. So ... Let it Be, as they sang. It works, mostly. Doing a tasting in someone's home would lead to orders and invitations to visit other homes. ... and more.

Then one nice chap wanted masses of three-bottle gift packs to give to his customers. That was my biggest ever order, and despite half the packs getting smashed in the post – because I didn't know you had to use postal packs – it was obvious I had to stick with the idea ... just with more robust cartons. I visited every business for miles around, and lined up so many orders for Christmas I couldn’t possibly ship them all in the van. So I booked an 'artic', a 40 foot articulated truck ... about four times bigger than my cellar. Which I realised was a problem.

My friend Mervyn had the use of a big shed up near Bray studios which I could use, he said. Fine except the artic, reversing in, demolished half the gateway. So we had to unload in the lay-by next to Windsor racecourse and ferry the boxes to the shed in the van. . The Constabulary were there in minutes. 'Ello 'ello 'ello. What's goin' on 'ere then? Situation soon sorted ... I was well known to the local coppers. I'd been at school with them.

But … it was a big jump in volumes. Exciting stuff, but all that wine in a shed in a field ... Risky ... no alarm or anything. I had to sleep with the wine, until I could deliver it. Barbara shared the caravan Merv had found me. She helped guard the stuff.

January, we moved the remaining wine and the caravan to the railway arch; perfect for wine storage but not so good for people. The caravan was set up as our office. Barbara arrived for her first morning's work – me having left for Bordeaux – to find the caravan gone and our papers scattered everywhere. It seemed Mervyn hadn’t got around to telling the caravan's owner about its new role. Barbara just camped in the cellar till I got back. It was January. She wasn't overly happy. I returned from France and found a solution. A few arches along an engineering unit had just imported a big new machine in a big wooden crate, about 8ft by 8ft by 8ft. I begged it off them , cut a door and made a desk inside. Voilà; office! Again, Barbara wasn’t totally delighted at my ingenuity, but needs must. I built a better shed later .. .two storeys ... Windows ... heating even! The things you could get away with so much in those pre- Health 'n Safety days!

Not everything though; I painted lovely big signs saying WINE WAREHOUSE, nailed them to Mr Brunel’s viaduct and then left for Bordeaux. Next day the Windsor and Eton Planning Officer came around, spitting mad, to shut us down for such a flouting of planning law. I was unaware of planning law. I was unaware of a lot. Luckily his assistant had been a mate of mine at school and calmed it all down. I removed the signs when I got back. Surprising how often disasters happened to Barbara whenever I went off to Bordeaux. Surprising how she's remained with me all these years.

With the big increase in sales volumes, there was then a cash flow problem. The bank preferred not to give us an overdraft. The growers were already giving us three months credit. Grandmother's money had run out. What to do?

Maybe ask the customers? There wasn't anybody else to ask. We wrote and asked them to buy what we called 'loan stock'. Lending us £100 got them 20% off £100 of wine per year. Worked a treat. Sort of like a very early version of crowd-funding. Got us out of difficulties. We have always been very grateful to those early customers who trusted this raw and inexperienced young couple under a railway arch. Not sure I would've. But we did eventually, when the Bank got friendlier, give them their money back.

My worried father had often urged me to get a job in wine to learn the business before starting on my own. But I knew I couldn't do that. My time with French growers left me with a lack of respect for established British traders. Right or wrong. I had it.

And also this huge overriding sense of urgency had enveloped and taken over the sleepy Nod Laithwaite. I had - would you believe it - been a bit of a sprinter in my youth. The mad fury that sprinters put into just 10 seconds of activity now seemed to become the way I lived...for some years!

My dad still worried that I didn't actually know what I was doing. So he asked the bank that looked after the affairs of the company he worked for (British Aluminium) if they had someone who could keep an eye on me.

They could have sent someone who might have tried to draw us into the great maw of The City instead they sent Bill Symonds. A laconic and witty Wykemist, Bill took one look at us and said Ye Gods, we should never ever go near The City, because the City would eat us alive. He thought the customer Loan Stock was the way to go. We only saw Bill once a year ... at year end. But he was invaluable. We have always needed wise old mentors. Today we are actually older than our current mentor. But we still need the wisdom of a clever outsider who knows the world better than we do.

And we are still always very much against the clock.

There was one very early experience which also decided not the route but the tone we were to take. A great mate from Durham had somehow landed a teaching job at Eton College. 'Durham Dave' and I would often meet up for a beer. One one occasion he invited me for dinner with other teachers at Baldwin's Shore. One of these teachers 'knew about wine', (a phrase I always dread hearing) and decided to put me through it. The questions, endless questions, the 'I know more than you' competitiveness. I hadn't realised that a wine snob is not necessarily someone who only drinks expensive wine but is more often someone who wants to demonstrate his wine superiority. I forget his name - but remember it was double-barrelled. He was clearly the wine expert of the house and was determined to defend his territory. I hadn't encountered any of this in France. Not with Monsieur, or Serge or any of the lads at the co-op. They knew wine but didn't feel they had to prove it. After that evening I considered giving up ... if it wine was going to be riddled with such snobbery. But then almost everyone else I met wasn't like that. So panic over. But I decided I would never resort to snobbery to sell wine. I would reach down into my Lancastrian roots and be as down-to-earth plain spoken about wine as it was possible. I must have succeeded; Hugh Johnson, to this day, will persist in calling me 'lad', and Jancis once wrote something about me being the wine merchant happier in wellies than pinstripe suit. And she was right.

I began to write wine lists - freehand at first, and often, being a geographer, in map form and send them to customers, to draw them to our Arch. So there were fewer at home tastings, and I could do big groups at the Arch. The Arch was just boxes of wine. Some served as a table for tastings. You could sit on others. My first decorative idea; the flaming torches, was not a success. Mervyn had got some of the wall braziers that Bray studios had used in their horror films. All the Hammer Horror films...Christopher Lee etc, were made at Bray. The fires made my great vault look really mediaeval .... but the dry cleaning bills for the customers coats were excessive.

But still they came. Coach parties even. Rotarians, Round Tablers, social clubs, the police, amateur wine makers, the WI, they all came. And many stayed as customers. I had celebrities. Michael Parkinson himself was a regular. And The Castle, from the start, provided me with Deans and Canons and Military Knights who were keen supporters. I used to love doing deliveries to The Castle. It impressed the tourists!

I had competition, of course. Supermarkets had barely begun and didn't sell wine, but every High Street had its 'Offies'. The independents had been supplanted by the chains like Victoria Wine, Peter Dominic and others. But what they sold was mostly UK bottled and tasted different to what I sold. They also gave out less information about their wines than I did. And that proved crucial ... the key. People who get quite interested in wine - more than just drinking it - would really rather buy it directly from whoever grew the grapes and made the wine. They made this clear to me. I was happy to try to give them a buying experience as close to that as I could possibly manage. Doing that and being very careful not to sound wine snobbish is I think what draws customers to us. To this day.

My Life in Wine - Part 7

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Mon, 20 Jul 2015 13:08:00 +0000

The Bordeaux Run

Concentrating has always been my problem, especially this morning, as last night we won The IWC Wine Merchant of the Year. Which affected me in so many ways. But I must make the mental effort … let's go back forty five years…

to when I would leave Windsor at six for Southampton and that very new thing, the tiny Thoresen overnight ferry, that you could actually drive on to, (previously, when you went abroad they used a crane.) It was a Norwegian boat, so … a nice smorgasbord, then a bit of kip, and off at 7.00am into smoky, industrial Le Havre. Once over the Tancarville Bridge though, it was all lovely and rural. Cows, apple trees, black-and-white cottages and whiskery old guys on bikes fetching the baguettes. The Pays d'Auge. In later years I led a few wonderful calvados, cider and camembert customer tours here. But most of my life I have just hurtled through … with many miles ahead.

How I loved that trip. 'Brown Sugar' belting out of the cassette player, tonking along; (those old Transits could shift). Narrow windy roads, Pont Audemer, Bernay, Gacé, Alençon, Le Mans (down the Mulsanne straight, knocking ninety) Tours, Poitiers, Ruffec, Angouleme, Chalais St Medard – names gouged deep in my memory – and into the vineyards, past the old co-op, St Genes and finally Sainte Colombe around 6pm. For a cool Vin de Noyer and a long chat with Monsieur, while Madame, clattering in the kitchen, got supper.

By now, four years after arriving Chez Cassin I was welcome to sleep in the house. And use a real bathroom. But this was not all good. French internal walls are very thin. And the Cassins snored. Boy, did they snore.

Anyway, next day was my 'rounds' . To Libourne for some Saint-Emilion (I didn't persuade everyone that Castillon was a better bet), then south over the rivers; the deux mers to get the Graves, and Sauternes, then east to Sainte Foy and along the Monbazillac road up the Dordogne to get the Bergeracs, etc. Then back west on the northern valley road, (to avoid the deadly main D936) to Le Fleix, Villefranche and then the co-op of Francs. They were lazy buggers there. Expected me to drive right into the cellar and load up myself while they finished their little grillade outside. They enjoyed a lot of grillades there. I didn't stick with their wine too long, though I really liked old Conchou, their long-suffering President. The co-op is now defunct.

Then on to Puisseguin, Château Guibeau and my old Co-op. A full van-load in one wonderful day, plenty of gossip and many tastes of this and that.

But I couldn't then just drive home. There were Les Papiers and Les Formalites. With every wine I had to collect papers; green acquis verts. (Getting caught by the Gendarmes with wine and no green papers, meant prison!) So, the next day had to go to the big customs hall in Bordeaux with my declarations for export. The UK was not in the EEC yet; exports were therefore under TIR rules. Transports International Routiers.

With dread, I would climb the stairs up to where the Dragon Lady sat and glowered behind her desk array of rubber stamps. She hated me. She hated everyone. All papers had to be in perfect order or got thrown back. When all was apparently OK she would perform with her stamps, a routine that would have impressed Keith Moon. Bang, bang, bangerty, bang, crash, thud and repeat and repeat. It was Very necessary not to grin during all this. Final scowl and I was free to go … once the van had been quarantined with a lead seal. All that took a whole day. A less good day. But still good … back to Madame's dinner, and sleep … if I could. Then a six am start to get to Le Havre before 6 pm when the freight office closed.

The return overnight sailing was taken up with even more form filling for the UK Customs and Excise. And that labour was vastly increased when, due to the country being in a bit of a mess, the UK government slapped on a load of emergency currency and import controls. You were supposed to pay a deposit of 50% of the value of your importation. I just didn't have that money.

But, luckily, imports under £50 value were exempt. Customs said it was OK for me to divide my cargo up and 'import' every customer's order as a separate importation. My wines sold for between 13/6d and 18/6d and the average order was two dozen bottles. So it worked. All orders/ imports were under £50; so no deposit needed. But it was a full night's work for me and plenty more for the Customs guys in the Southampton Customs Long Room. They probably didn’t love me for that. When we docked, I'd park up the van, then walk into town, to Barclays to withdraw the necessary duty money. Sometimes this was not forthcoming and I'd have to find a phone box and plead with my bank in Windsor. No money, no clearance, and me stuck in Southampton Docks for days. But Barclays – decent chaps – always relented … after the usual lecture on the need for better fiscal probity.

Then back to the Customs Long Room, deposit papers and money and pray they don't order a full turn out. Which inevitably they did. I must've looked a bit dodgy to them. Drive in the shed, wait for dockers to roll up from their nice Docker's Club over the road, because I wasn't allow to touch 'owt. However, these were good dockers. Maybe they could see I was earning a lot less than them. They had pity, they behaved impeccably. The customs man would do his count, sign me off, the dockers reload absolutely every bottle, and off home for the next month, delivering and hopefully, selling more.

Customers liked the direct delivery a lot. Some would invite me in for a drink – tea – and chat. They wanted to hear about Monsieur and the others. Which taught me something valuable: for a surprising number of people, it is not 'tasting notes' they want, but some knowledge of how their wine is made, where, by whom and why like that?

I was a long way from running a proper business, but I'd found a passion. Which is a big deal. Not everyone is blessed with the gift of work that evokes passion … so that work isn't actually work at all. Selling was fairly hard – I don't think I'm a 'natural salesman' – but not too hard. People were just really nice to me. Maybe it wasn't so much that the wines were nicer than what they were used to, maybe it was they actually felt sorry for me. Maybe they liked to help a young guy with a new idea. Anyway, they bought. Thank God.

People these days often ask, "did you see it becoming such a big business" and I say no. I didn't look forward further than the end of the month; the next trip. That was my reward. Sure, I wanted enough money to be able to hold my head up and buy my round, with my friends, all of whom had good jobs. Certainly I needed to pay rent on my cellar (I gave up the office above it, as unnecessary and too expensive) and my share of a flat in Windsor … and I had to eat. My mum slipped me food parcels and I bought nouilles wholesale to share with Bernard. This was his idea … and obsession; nouilles – French pasta – every meal. Nothing is cheaper. Bernard was a French guy who worked with me a while. He was from Draguinan, a friend of Remy Ott, scion of that legendary Provence wine family, who I'd hung out with on the Bordeaux Uni wine course that I did. Bernard just turned up one day and joined me as a salesman sharing the job of leafleting the area and giving tastings in people's homes … or sometimes in the back of the van (you can make a Transit box-body into quite a comfy little tasting room with wine box seats and bits of old carpet). He was good, Bernard. Had the patter. And the accent. But French. He met a pretty au-pair girl … and that was him gone.

So I never expected at that time to do more than just get by. Anyway, in those days it seemed to me you were actively discouraged from trying to make money. I was told that top rate UK income tax was 98%. Unbelieeeevable! So what on earth was the point of making money?

I also heard, many a time, the old wine trade saying: "the only way to make a small fortune in wine is to start with a big one". Added together, these things caused me to set up a business that just did not pursue profit. Initially I actually wanted to be a cooperative. But Monsieur counseled strongly against that; he knew the problems too well.

I just decided I would aim to reward myself in the currency of pure pleasure rather than in what, in the quaint term of the day, we called pounds, shillings and pence … though that changed to decimal around this time. Suppose I do make some money and they let me keep a bit of it, what will I do with it? I'll probably spend it on having a nice time in the South of France. So why not cut out the taxman … legally; graft for three weeks selling a hundred or so cases of wine. Then as reward, jump in my van and bomb down to Bordeaux, sunshine, good food, my friends and my lovely France for a few days. They can't tax me on that can they? Well, they didn't. And for twenty years that was my life. In time I went way beyond Bordeaux. Didn't actually drive back every case myself, of course, but the principal remained the same and we made no profits … even when we tried to. So we paid no 98% tax. Took a little salary but that was all.

Starting a business in the Sixties was not really what you did. Not cool. This was, don't forget, still the age of steam trains. (OK, also lunar landings … but that was America.) But encouragement to set up in business? None. Advice available? None. Small, starter premises? None. Finance? None. Computers? None smaller than a barn. Phones? Wait two years. So everyone went off to be a lawyer, accountant, teacher, union leader or banker. Fine people all. But that didn't get the country very far, until years later, somehow the idea spread that running your own business could actually be the best fun there was.

I have always tried to keep the level of fun high in my business. Wry smiles and winks all round at my constant refrain "but it must be FUN!" Bonkers Chairman Tony.

Actually, there was plenty small enterprise back then. Always is. Just kept under the counter. For me my introduction to this was Mervyn, his family and the Daves. Mervyn came from the council estate up Dedworth, worked at the garage over the road but could fix much more than cars. He could fix Anything … or find you a bloke called Dave who could. He could get you anything at unbelievable prices … not knocked off or anything. He was quite straight was Merv, he said.

So whilst there was no official support for new businessman, there was – and, though things for us; now, the proper, pukka Large Company, are all very different, I believe there still is – an underground network of unofficial small scale, self-help in Britain. Best not write too much about it though.

Merv's brother, Roddy could do your accounts … and also deliver your boxes in London with a never-surpassed charm before customers had even left for work. One of his other brothers was a legal clerk, much better than many a lawyer. I forget what his third brother did, but I remember it was useful. His Dad wielded a demon broom and his mum could stuff a thousand mailing envelopes an hour. My van was impeccably maintained in a discrete lock-up in Maidenhead by a genius called … Dave. My phone lines were sorted in hours thanks to a Dave who did moonlighting outside his GPO hours.

So what with the trips, the nice, kind customers, Merv and the Daves it was a great life. Maybe I worked for peanuts – well, doughnuts rather than peanuts (the daily warm, penny jam doughnut was the highlight of my day). But I loved it, I bloody loved it all.

My Life in Wine - Part 6

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Mon, 13 Jul 2015 14:58:00 +0000

Bordeaux Direct was beginning to take shape

Offering more than one wine was certainly an astute move! And one particular characteristic was beginning to show; one that we still have today. It was our 'wine next door' thing: a marked tendency to prefer the less well-known – and less expensive – wine that lives in the shadow of its more privileged, well-known neighbour. Maybe this was just the traditional British preference for the underdog, but a more powerful reason was Sainte Colombe.

By chance I had landed in this 'underdog' village, lying within an underdog wine region, Côtes de Castillon, that itself felt cheated. From the first days I heard loud and clear the grievance felt by all around me; their sense of having been done out of what was their due. They were all angry at being banned from calling their wine Saint-Emilion or St-Emilionais as they had done before the Appellation Controllee boundaries were drawn up. And I took on their anger.

The Sixties were 'Angry Times' after all. So many, at this time, got angry about social injustice, or race discrimination and other really important things. I just became the Angry Young Wine Merchant! Not quite such a global issue, but … my very own issue. I was incensed about a dubious choice of boundary line forty years before! I wanted to tell everyone that Sainte Colombe and its neighbours had been unfairly excluded from the Saint-Emilion appellation. The same could be said of the wines of Puisseguin and Lussac and others to the north, though they were compensated with Second Division status as inferior 'Satellites' of Saint-Emilion.

Debarred from putting that Glorious Name on their wines, the excluded all had to sell their wines for roughly the price of basic Bordeaux. Everybody knew, though would not necessarily admit it openly, that their wines – done right, made correctly with skill and a well-appointed cellar – could be just as good.

What’s in a name? In wine, a 'name', an appellation, is worth a great deal of money. Many long and expensive court battles have been fought over wine names. The wine of Saint-Emilion had built up its name over centuries. Because it was particularly good wine. Saint-Emilion and most of its surrounding villages lie on a low plateau of limestone where vine roots must search deep down for water. This struggle results in smaller grapes with more flavours that can, in the right hands, make a particularly rich, mouth-filling and richly flavoured wine, that lingers and delights.

But Saint-Emilion also benefitted greatly from the town's old Saint himself: Emilion the misogynist hermit whose tomb and its power to make barren women fertile drew a vast multitude of medieval tourists to the town. They called themselves 'Pilgrims' of course, but come they did, as tourists still do today. They stayed in the many inns and monastic houses – there were at least 20 of the latter – ate and of course drank the local wine. The monks and nuns, being on the whole brighter and more learned than your average peasant, were able to produce some superior stuff from their rocky vineyards. And so a reputation was born and a name or appellation was made.

I will drone on still more if you don't mind. This is after all a fifty year obsession and as I said above, it clearly shaped what 'Bordeaux Direct' was, and Laithwaite's Wine still is.

Early on, Saint-Emilion would have meant wine from the hill villages all around. But it would NOT have meant wine from the villages down the flood plain of the Dordogne River to the south. Because there wasn't any. Because a valley floor is not suitable for vines because it floods most winters. It still does. It’s a flood plain. Flooded vines, unsurprisingly, produce big, watery grapes with little flavour and almost none of that rich mouthfeel, or body. Instead the flat valley floor produced the beef, lamb and bread that went so well with the good hill wines.

Until, in 1920, a Commission chaired by the Curé of one of the valley villages decreed that these pastoral villages should be included in the new, official, Parisian bureaucratic, Controlled appellation of Saint-Emilion, and that a whole bunch of hill villages be excluded. Look in The World Atlas of Wine and you will see the result. Much delight in the valley – St-Emilion wine is lucrative – and much upset on the hills. To this day, the Saint-Emilion château owners on the hills sniff about the 'cattlemen's wines' from the valley. But the wine growers in the excluded zones were most upset. So I went in to bat for them and Monsieur liked that. So he found me others.

I had met Henri Bourlon when researching my geography dissertation on 'St-Emilion and Surrounding Areas'. A big man, fierce-looking, but kind to me, who had built a substantial property of 50 hectares in Puisseguin, adopted modern practices and, rare in those days, a bottling line. We shared a passion for gadgets.

I loved his rounded, dark soft wine, Le Vieux Château Guibeau 1966 a label and wine he did for me. When old Henri died, I carried on buying from his son Henri junior, Maire of Puisseguin, and when he retired, continued with his daughter Brigitte. Brigitte's daughter is now 18 and heavily involved with the estate. So I guess we will soon be dealing with old Henri's great granddaughter.

Thousands of customers today love Le Vieux Château Guibeau, and a good few hundred have called in on the Bourlons for a look around and tasting. Sadly, I don't think they get the benefit of old Henri's favourite party trick. He kept a wine rack of top Saint-Emilion Cru wines and before dinner, guests like me were invited to pick a bottle. Two decanters would then appear on the table. The challenge was to pick which was from Guibeau and which was the Saint-Emilion costing twice the price … or more. Sometimes you guessed right. Sometimes not. But the point was that with the enjoyment always so similar, why bother paying double?

Built him a massive and still loyal following, did this performance. It also strengthened my belief that what I should do for my customers was find them more and more of these 'wines next door to the famous'.

I knew Maurice Gouzon from the coop because he sold a lot of its wine. He was an agent. But his base was in Bergerac and what he mostly sold were the, then, totally unknown wines of the departements of Dordogne and Lot et Garonne. Wine regions like Bergerac, Montravel and Duras also benefit from the same excellent wine geology as Saint-Emilion, Castillon and much of the region south of the Dordogne that makes wines labelled just Bordeaux. Maurice had, like quite a few I came to know, started out on his bike selling wine after the war. He was still a keen Cycliste and raced most weekends. He must've been better on a bike that in a car because his office was scarily decorated with the steering wheels of cars he had written off. He was not the only French driver who terrified me...some still do. Its the way they talk when driving; that Gallic way, turning and gesticulating. God, I feel sure, never intended the French to drive.

Anyway, he was doing well with Dordogne wines in France. He thought I could do well with them in Britain and generously introduced me to producers like Madame Becker. Mme Becker was a rather severe old widow originally from Alsace who made something almost unique back then; a really clean, crisp and wonderfully affordable white wine from Sauvignon Blanc and Semillon at her adorable, all-towers-and-turrets Périgord Château de Pannisseau. This became very popular with my customers, and remained so many years after her death until her son also died and the château changed hands … and the wine lost its charm for me.

I had another lucky break. Maurice Gouzon did most work with Unidor; one of the Dordogne’s dozen or so wine cooperatives. I though a red Bergerac would go down really well as another 'cheaper-but-just-as-good wine from next door' … to Bordeaux. Same soil, climate and grape varieties as Bordeaux. Just much cheaper as back then, it was almost unheard of outside France.

A dozen co-ops though … I didn't have time to taste through that lot. But my old team's hooker Popol did! I'd played a season and a bit for the Castillon XV, flying gracefully down the wing … until the local food and wine regime did for my speediness once and for all. The team's evening training was always followed by a few rounds in the Bar Venise, then large horse steaks grilled over a fire in the back yard, half a camembert, half an apple pie and as much slightly dodgy wine as you could hold. (The town's boucher chevaline, fromagier and patissier were the team's most generous supporters.)

Anyway, to my amazement, there, up the Dordogne, was Popol (nickname) in his lab coat diligently tasting and analysing every wine Unidor had made. He was their oenologist, sort of like a wine vet. Oenologists don't – or didn't – actually make wine, they just tell others how to, then check the results. He showed me a few … the day's best … and worst. We chatted and – bonds between old Castillon players being strong – he said he'd show me the best tank the region had produced last year. He did, and did for many years after, during which my really outstanding Bergerac red comprehensively outsold all my Bordeaux.

Dominique Guillot de Suduiraud made wine in a remote and rather overlooked part of the Graves district. A bachelor who lived in an ancient château with his terrifying, ancient mother, he was the great pioneer of modern dry white wine making. He ran the Bordeaux research institute at La Tresne and had installed in his Château Magence the first stainless steel tanks ever seen in the region. These he cooled by running cold water down the outside and so kept his Sauvignon Blanc ferments just ticking over for many days. And that’s how you get that crisp, fresh fruit aromatic tang everyone loves so much these days. Back then he was the only one doing cold-fermented Sauvignon in Bordeaux. Customers lapped it up of course.

All these men and Monsieur Cassin were mad keen competitors in France's wine competitions, Les Concours de Vin. That’s how they knew each other. They always entered their wines, often won, and also went along as judges. In later years they invited me along to Paris; the big one, first Saturday in March when that elegant city is full of red-faced farmers. I learned a lot with them. They took young me to Le Crazy Horse.

Monsieur Cassin, Monsieur Bourlon, Monsieur Gouzon, Monsieur Guillot de Suduiraud and the President of the little cooperative of Francs (another tiny and forgotten wine region) taught me so much … but they also did something so generous I still wonder at it today. They got together and bought me a Ford Transit of my own.

Five of them chipped in £200, (and I put in the same; the last of grandmother’s). £1200 bought a shiny new, aluminium-box bodied, 35cwt Ford Transit in those days. With double wheels at the back, it could carry 100 cases of wine. I was aiming to sell 100 cases a month! Wow! Huge!

Which meant a trip to Bordeaux every month. Now that was a prospect that really excited me. Luckily, it excited customers too.

My Life in Wine - Part 5

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Tue, 07 Jul 2015 09:38:00 +0000

Starting Up

From Summer of '68 to summer of '69 I lived in Ste Colombe and Castillon. All the Grands Evenements riots and collapsing governments in Paris completely passed us by in our bit of La France Profonde. My French got pretty good. But I saw that I couldn't stay. This was before Britain joined the EEC, I was a foreigner, my work permit was only as a temporary 'stagiere' and anyway I couldn't find a real job. I tried. The French wine merchants always turned me down politely when they realised my father wasn't also a wine merchant, but the British!!! The man at Grants of Saint James actually laughed at dissertation; my precious little book on the 'Wines of Saint-Emilion and Surrounding Areas'. Another couldn't be bother to get out of bed when I'd travelled since early dawn to his hotel.

Life was good, though. Still medieval; winter parties in vast, bare castle halls heated by huge fires, summer playing Creedence and Abbey Road in another vast old place I was supposed to be helping to restore. This was before the British invasion of the Dordogne region and I was the only Brit around, which had its advantages; there were girls who believed I actually knew Paul McCartney. But it couldn't last. I really needed to find something – anything – fast.

Then one day; THE BLINDING LIGHT! My particular Road to Damascus was the winding RD17 between Puisseguin and Ste Colombe. Monsieur, driving me home after work one day, suddenly suggested that if no-one else would let me work in wine, I should do my own thing; I should try selling his wine. Now what he meant was become a rep, what in France they call a 'Multicartes'. I should go round calling on restaurateurs and shopkeepers and wine merchants ... basically set up as a freelance agent. But I saw something very different.

I have maybe embroidered the story over the years in the frequent retelling, but his suggestion seemed to explode in my head. It ignited a sudden welling-up of a string of ideas to do with writing letters to people with an offer of a free wine tasting, going round giving tastings, telling the story, collecting lots of orders, sending orders to Bordeaux, shipping back the wine, delivering it, maybe actually earning some money, and never having to go for another humiliating job interview.

Monsieur did not disagree but weighed in with stern practicalities. We talked on in the car … and talked and talked … into the night … sitting in that old 2CV Citroen in Monsieur's darkened garage. A worried Madame eventually had to come and drag us to dinner, so hard did the idea bite, so long did we sit, plan and argue.

The next day a Sales Letter was drafted – I still have it.

We wrote it together, me persuading Monsieur to leave in his quaint English grammar. (I added a couple more Frenchisms). He even let me draw my own label and got it printed for me. The prices were then worked out. He did that. A bit beyond my abilities, that sort of thing. Still is. Monsieur believed it was very important to always make a profit – no half-price deals, but that it should never be a large profit. He said it was important the margin was fair all round. Too little and service and quality would inevitably drop for lack of funds. Too much and the customers would leave. He said that you develop a nose for where your price should be. I followed his dictums … sometimes.

Setting up a business! So Exciting! Finally, There Was A Goal! No risk really, what did I have to lose by trying? And meantime the Bordeaux sun shone and there was divine wine and food and, well, a very nice French girl.

So, Monsieur Cassin had fired me up about this selling wine thing. I'd decided I didn't want to sell to the trade but rather direct to the public. I needed a name, and came up with the name 'Bordeaux Direct'. I'd seen it on a road sign south of Castillon. "Bordeaux par Langon" to the left, "Bordeaux Direct" to the right. (The name was subsequently registered as a Limited Company by an early customer of mine who wanted lots of shares in return for letting me use it. Almost everyone is kind to young entrepreneurs … but not quite everyone. I stormed out of his house, really panicked. Then I remembered Dave Wright. We'd played rugby together at school. He – our Captain – never liked it when opponents took liberties and we often had to restrain him. Unsurprisingly he'd become a lawyer. I called him and he calmed me down saying as I'd traded as 'Bordeaux Direct' this guy couldn't use the name or Dave would have him for 'passing off'. Dave became my lawyer henceforth. The Company didn't get into many fights but when it did Dave won them. This time we told the ******* to sod off but then had to register our limited company as 'Direct Wines (Windsor) Ltd’ which caused a lot of confusion and is easily copyable. And today it amazes me how many Companies now add the word Direct to their names.)

Had to face reality one day.

The summer had to end.

I had to set off for home, leaving all I loved behind. To cold Britain. I remember clearly October 1969 sitting at home in front of my bedroom electric fire lying out the 24 half-bottles of Monsieur’s Co-op claret in a neat row on the bed. This was what my wild dreams came down to. I had my ‘reps’ samples case and 100 printed letters signed by Monsieur. It looked awfully bleak.

I posted them to 100 names lifted from the local phone book. And waited.

I got two replies … for a ‘Free Tasting in Your Home’. It looked bleaker. I didn't know then that 2% was actually the average response rate to a 'cold' list. I thought it was a disaster. My balloon was popped. No car, no money, forced to live with my parents – father already fuming.

I wrote to my mate Tony Parkin still living the life at Durham. A caring friend. He replied and I remember it so well "Dear Nod," (the nickname I had had since schooldays, due to my tendency to 'drift off' during lessons, lectures, matches and even, once, a Pink Floyd concert). "Thanks for telling me your problems. Well, in Yorkshire we have a saying; "Tough Titty". You've had a great time in France, you've chosen a path to follow, just shut up and get on with it, will you." This is what friends are for. I fell of the loo, laughing, resolved to continue and got a Christmas temp job at a gents outfitters, Simpsons in Piccadilly, to tide me over. This was the shop that inspired the sit com 'Are You Being Served'. I worked for the real Captain Peacock, and was not tempted to change trades.

But those two wine tastings had worked.

The First was in Burnham (one case ordered). The Second on a trading estate in Windsor. With a man who was a property developer. He came up trumps - five cases! And rang loads of friends there and then to tell of this wonderful little man and his suitcase of samples.

From that guy Roger, the whole business grew.

But so slowly.

My first shipment had come in via London Docks at what was the East India Dock (now, rather changed into Canary Wharfe). It was expensive. I had to go through agents called Thomas Trapp. It took forever and when I finally got to my order … quite a lot had been pilfered. Ah! The dockers of yesteryear. They knew am good claret when they saw one.

Luckily things then changed and my next shipment was able to come in through Shoreham on Sea; a tiny, honest harbour, which had regular shipments from Bordeaux on a boat called the ‘Zephyr’. Over a year I came to have a regular route down to Shoreham – a much better run than having to fight my way through London Docks … and Grandmother lent me enough for a car, a rather battered but serviceable Cortina estate.

About once a month I did the Shoreham run – for about 20 cases a time. It took me a month to do enough tastings to sell the 20 cases. Of course, I wasn’t earning enough to live … but Mother managed to keep Father from throwing me out until the following summer. I then got a room in the house next door so I could still nip home for the odd meal when the Old Man was out.

But it was a depressing time. Until by amazing chance, Barbara, that feisty girl from Durham crashed back in to my life and started to take me over.

I splashed out on an office behind a junk shop in Victoria Street, Windsor next to the barracks. I splashed out on the very first ‘pocket’ calculator on the market – a ‘Sharp’ Y200. Sales didn't justify its cost of £200! But remember I couldn't do maths. So kind of them to invent it just then.

I also splashed out on one of the first Phillips hand-held Memo Recorders. The idea was to send the cassettes to France where Monsieur had one. It kept us in touch. It lifted me to hear him talking … Or lecturing. I hated being so far from Bordeaux. In those days if I, or anyone, wanted to phone abroad, I had to call the International Operator the day before and book a call. Then, when it eventually came just pray the operators didn't cut me off mid conversation. Trading wasn't made easy back then.

But commercially it was all still quite hopeless. I avoided my friends; they all had real jobs and real money. The gadgets helped morale.

Incessantly arranging and re-arranging the office helped too. It avoided real, proper ‘crunch’ work. But cold calling and doorstep selling was all I had and it was tough going. All the while I pined for Bordeaux for the Paradise I had known. Then it came to me that the solution lay there.

Why didn't I simplify everything and drive on past Shoreham, onto one of he new Roll on-Roll off ferries and down to Bordeaux to fetch my orders myself in the Cortina?

Which I did.

Customers liked this. They not only got the wine direct but the latest news from the vineyards and a happier salesman. And cheaper prices.

I was cutting out a lot of middlemen. Wine traditionally went grower to courtier (broker) to merchant to shipper to importer to merchant to retailer (not forgetting the unofficial 'Levies' taken en-route by dockers and shippers). I seriously cut costs. And I really, really loved doing it. Sales went up to about 100 cases a month.

I hired a six wheel, 35cwt Ford Transit box bodied van from Godfrey Davies in Reading for four days in September 1970. I drove to Southampton and took one of the new Townsend Thoresen roll on-roll off ferries to Le Havre. I was so petrified I think I drove all the way without a stop – no I must have stopped for petrol. But when I got there I had trouble prising my hands of the wheels and stopping shaking. The Cassins took me in as always and Monsieur had arranged a few fellow wine producers from Bergerac to Saint-Emilion. Things were moving.

My Life in Wine - Part 4

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Mon, 29 Jun 2015 16:36:00 +0000

The Co-op

So I entered the ancient and glorious wine trade. June '65. I started work at Monsieur's Cave Cooperative which took in the grapes of its members in the villages of Lussac and Puisseguin on the limestone hills – the 'Roc' – to the north east of the well known wine village of Saint Emilion. A beautiful but less well known – back then – wine region next door to the even less well-known Côtes de Castillon where I lived.

What is a wine cooperative exactly? Caves Co-operatives are big, communal cellars set up around France and then many other wine regions of the world in the '20's and '30's during the Great Depression to help winegrowers survive. It takes a lot of money and skill to make your own wine, then completely different talents to sell it. Most small farmers lacked these more sophisticated skills and certainly had no money … and reckoned they couldn't survive alone. Together, many thought, they stood a better chance.

The individual wines from dozens or even hundreds of growers and many different vineyards were then made centrally at less cost. They weren't always necessarily made better. There are good co-ops, middling and bad co-ops. But there are some great ones. The crucial need I have noticed over the years, is for them to elect a clever, dynamic and slightly scary President to keep what is always a fairly stroppy crowd of independent-minded grower-owners from descending into open warfare. French winegrowers can and do co-operate when it is necessary but are not a naturally cooperative breed. They are a very competitive breed.

So there I was in this vast structure; a typical co-op, which Monsieur objected to me calling ugly. I can see his point, now. Because I have worked with so many co-operatives over the years and found so many great wines, made so many friends, that to me, they are now really rather beautiful; or perhaps 'Jolie laide' as the French say. I love them.

They are usually built of reinforced concrete, brutalist style. I will admit that in our catalogues we rarely print photos of co-operatives. Sorry, Monsieur but we don't think the look helps sales. We focus on the wine instead. Inside they resemble old fashioned prisons such as the one in 'Porridge'. The prison cells though, are 'cuves' and contain wine, not blokes in for GBH.

So the doors are small. A person can get through these doors … if they are small and prepared to enter head-first and horizontally. More usually they get in through a trap in the top. They go in – someone has to – to shovel out the sediment which drops out of a wine as it ferments and then ages. My 'minder' at the co-op, Serge, a small, wiry, very kind man did this job and it was the work I immediately wanted to do. You know how pleasant it is to inhale the aromas in a big glass of wine? Well then imagine climbing into a damp, dripping prison cell only just vacated by lovely wine with about a foot of pungent red sediment in the bottom. The aromas are quite literally mind-blowing. Very happy work! If you can get it. Alas, I was stuck on the bottling line instead, and became a robot.

I stood beside the small bottling line, on to which I placed the cleaned, empty bottles. That is all I did hour after hour after hour, day after day … with monsieur Ferrere, Marcel, Monsieur Poli, and two small, dark, young, very pretty sisters who, alas, found me – incapable of stringing two French words together – utterly hilarious and unbelievably stupid. The banter around me was continuous – and witty, I think. I just couldn't understand it … at first. But by God, I wanted to. The little sisters succeeded where old 'Froggie' Croker had failed with me at school; they made me desperate to learn French.

But then there was at least the wine! There were a hundred taps in my immediate vicinity and only a few – those painted red! – dispensed water.

The machine broke fairly frequently, thank God. It was a primitive machine. However, if it didn't break, Marcel knew ways to make it break because Marcel regularly needed one of the ghastly brown cigarettes he rolled. And a drink. They would all have a drink. Except the girls. France doesn't do tea breaks. But a chap needs a reviver. And something to make the monotony bearable. So I went off too, and started my career as a wine taster.

In time, I began to be more discriminating and stopped drinking straight from the tap and used a glass. This was the grimy wine glass Marcel kept hidden in the tool cupboard. It had lost its foot and the broken stem was embedded in a wooden barrel bung. We all used it.

Interestingly, it seemed the others didn't just go to the nearest tap. They would run the serious risk of being apprehended by Monsieur Lafaye just to get to one particular tap.

This, I suppose helped me understand something that has been invaluable to me ever since; tanks may all look the same, barrels may all look the same … but they're not. Not at all.

Wine doesn't come out of a machine. It comes out of the earth and every little patch of earth is a unique mix of soils and rock. These days the vines planted in that earth can be cloned, but so far no-one has managed to clone a grape grower so growers all work in different ways … on different days. And every day is different to the next. Result is, every vine – even cloned vines – produces a slightly different wine to its neighbour. OK, to us the difference is not readily discernible at that stage but by the time the wine is in barrels or tanks, believe me, the differences are discernible. However, to make Big Retail's commercial quantities of wine many different wines must be blended together. The bigger the volume needed the more wines must be blended; the delicious with – inevitably – the less delicious.

So … a tip for any would be wine buyers: don't ever buy big blends. Cherry-pick that extra-special tank or barrel.

When I did launch my wine-selling business four years later I started with a wine from Monsieur's dear Co-operative. Did I launch with their standard blend? No way! I checked with Marcel at which tank the lads were currently helping themselves. "Never buy what you're offered; taste the whole cellar first … then choose"; Laithwaites modus operandi ever since. Not an original thought; a very old tradition. One I had been taught in a way that even I couldn't forget.

The co-op did its own, well-known blend sold throughout France. But also, independent wine merchants would come and taste their way through the cellar, trying tank after tank till they found what they wanted. One particular day I was sweeping the cellar floor when it began to rain … wine! Two storeys above me on the upper catwalks, Bernard the deputy Director and several merchants were sipping, gurgling tasting and spitting over the catwalk railings … on me! I found this quite motivational. It would, I thought, be much better to be up there spitting down, than down here being spat upon.

So when I started Bordeaux Direct with just one wine – the wine of the co-operative – I didn't just take what was on offer, I got the one tank I wanted. I knew it was the best tank. Marcel and everyone working in the cellar knew it was the best tank … because of the secret glass. It had been bottled apart from the rest. I discovered the pile of bottles and said I wanted only those bottles. Monsieur indulged me. Then I went mad and drew and printed my own label. I don’t know why I did this. It was a terrible label. My drawing was a bit rough, and I then went and splodged wine all over it. I got this effect by spitting wine from the catwalks onto a sheet of paper below. Guess where I got that idea. Eventually I came to the conclusion my splodgy red label must have put people off. But thank God it didn't put them off too much. They liked the wine.

I adored that summer of '65 for that life of wine, vineyards and cellars governed by the seasons and the cycles of the moon. And also the long brown legs of the girl who rattled her milk-pail past my window every evening. Living? I was in a novel, a historical novel, and I never wanted to leave.

I made hay (really!); all pitchforks and rakes, with the old French ladies telling me undreamt of facts of life! The boys and girls took me to the summer's 'Bals' at weekend; every village and hamlet had at least one 'Bal' a year. Orchestre, dancing, feasting, flirting, fumbling, boules and bike races.

My 'Stagiere'-work did expand to cleaning tanks, sweeping floors, filling bottles, stacking bottles, labeling, packing, dispatching. Working outdoors too, in vineyards at weekends was mostly spraying copper sulphate and being stained blue in the process. Nothing skilled, here either really, but at least I was in the wine trade!

After three months in Bordeaux, just as I was getting a grasp on the language, I caught the train home (with a cumbersome number of cases of Monsieur's wine for my Dad and his chums) to start three years of University. At lovely Durham.

Over which period, I will gloss. Apart from mentioning that while there I started a sort of business – my first – doing the decorations, the 'sets', for all the many balls and dances with which Durham entertained itself in the days before such things as night clubs arrived.

The Who are playing Glastonbury tonight … I have to stop writing this to see that. I last saw them in Durham's Dunelm House, performing under my pink flamingo set! Or was that Manfred Mann? Memories are vague. But they all came to Durham … all the great bands. Even Chuck Berry. Great years.

Despite this, wine was still my main thing. My geography dissertation (geography was what I was supposed to be doing) on 'The Wines of St Emilion and Surrounding Areas' allowed me a great summer – '67 – of visits around Bordeaux. I got to interview wine farmers of all sorts from the slightly dodgy up to the likes of Troplong Mondot and the young Christian Moueix and Jean-Claude Berrouet, the men behind a little chateau called Pétrus).

At Durham also, I did meet a very fanciable girl. Great legs, mini skirt. (That was how we talked back then). She didn't much like my ways and defended her honour painfully and effectively. We did not become 'an item' 'til years later. Then we married. She was Scottish! And I always meant to marry a French girl!

Barbara and I both left Durham with the lowest degrees possible. Me, because I was thick. She, because she was really dangerous in a laboratory! She still got a great job. But I didn't; not any kind of job. So, in the violent summer of '68, I went back to France, Bordeaux, Monsieur and Madame Cassin, Sainte Colombe, the Co-operative.

I still liked the work … but felt it was not perhaps a fast track, career-wise.

Monsieur kindly gave me Mondays off to do a day-release wine course at Bordeaux University run by the wonderful and legendary Professor Emile Peynaud; the man who did more than anyone to kick Bordeaux out of decades of doldrums into the splendiferous golden age in which its top châteaux have resided ever since. I used to taste wine under the Prof. all morning then go off to join in the student riots in the afternoon. 1969 was not as riotous as 1968 but rioting ('le Manif!') was still the fashion. I had zero political views but was still trying to get off with French girls.

Most important thing the Prof taught us was not to trust our pathetic human palates. I think that's what he said anyway. He played practical jokes to teach us humility (many classmates were heirs to Grand Châteaux and not overloaded with modesty). Like he would give us two wines to taste one after the other, and ask us to tell the class how they compared. He let us all hang ourselves before revealing they were both from the same bottle. I've not totally trusted my palate ever since. Ever since, I've never believed in people with 'wonder palates'. I'm probably wrong in that. But it hasn't harmed my business. Has it actually helped my business? Certainly the 'two' wine test has come in useful more than once with over-confident new staff.

It was a nice year in-and-around Castillon; '68-'69. I left the co-op and spent a summer working for a small merchant in Castillon who had a cellar by the river. It was referred to as 'le chai au quai' to differentiate it from their other cellar 'à la gare', by the railway station. Monsieur Appelghem employed me to bottle a barrel of wine per day. Manually. The old way. Crouched on the floor, filling the 300 bottles from a tap. Corking by hand, capsuling, and labelling all by hand. Very satisfying work. Local wines mostly. But also a wine from Algeria called Mascara, very popular then, in the bars of Castillon. It was 15%, rich and stained your teeth. I liked it too.

But something had to be done, I supposed. Yes, but job interviews in Bordeaux were as unsuccessful as they had been back home. So what the......??

My Life in Wine - Part 3

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Mon, 22 Jun 2015 10:57:00 +0000

The Cassins

Monsieur and Madame Cassin, picture courtesy of Yves Gellie

After a week scratching dust in the sun, but eating well with the Cassins, I confessed that I wasn't really an archaeologist, and could I have a job with them … maybe in the cool, co-operative winery which he ran, please? He rang his Maitre de Chai; Monsieur Lafaye and I entered the wine trade a week later. Washing bottles. Monsieur drove me to work in the morning in his bouncy old 2CV, all corrugations and canvas, home and back for Dejeuner/La Soupe, and home in the evening … talking all the way … arms waving. Luckily there were few other cars around.

I was incredibly lucky to get Monsieur as my mentor, supporter, and guru. Of all the thousands of people running wineries in France – and I've met a lot of them – I don't think anyone could have helped me more into the business. He drummed wine lore and business wisdom into me. It took a lot of drumming. He adopted this habit of telling me everything twice … or three times, to make sure it went in. He spoke excellent English but only used it when all else failed. He insisted I speak French … or at least try to. I tried … I had to if no-one would speak English. My brain hurt, but, after a month I found I myself thinking in French and by the end of the summer I could speak it quite well. Not that I necessarily knew what I was saying, and to this day, I still have trouble reading French.

Back then most wine farmers around the Castillon/Saint-Emilion area were just that; farmers who grew grapes and fermented them into wine, nothing more complicated than that, more or less. They then waited for a 'courtier' (broker) to call, taste and take samples away and get a merchant to make an offer. When a deal was closed the merchant sent a lorry or a tanker and the wine bit of the farmer's job was over; the merchant looked after things from then on.

Monsieur, on the other hand, ran the first large cooperative (200 member) winery in Bordeaux ever to do the whole process; grow grapes, make wine, age it, bottle it and market it around the world. As a result he became not at all popular with the Great Wine Houses of Bordeaux, the Calvets, Cordiers, Cruses etc. These intermediary merchants, sitting between simple wine farmers and small wine retailers had dominated the wine trade for centuries. In fact, it was they who created the whole Bordeaux trade, not the châteaux who rule today. But those merchants could be ruthless bastards.

Monsieur told me how they had "sent me to Birmingham", meaning Coventry, of course, because of his cooperative daring to cut them out and go direct to a shop chain. In certain countries this battle with entrenched middlemen continues to be fought. But in Bordeaux the merchants are mostly gone these days, or have become shadows of their former selves. The wine producers; the Grand Châteaux and co-operative groups, now dominate. Over the years I've watched it all happen; vineyard owners and co-operative cellars installing their own bottling lines and good kit, and going out to find markets. But Monsieur Cassin, ex-African trader (the merchants called him the Marchand de Cacahouettes; peanut vendor) showed everyone the way. He was full of ideas and eventually came up with one for me; that I should become a UK wine importer. Because he needed one.

Jean Cassin was born in Castillon the local town, previously called Castillon sur Dorgogne until they remembered the Hundred Years War had ended in a battle just outside their gates and re-named themselves Castillon-la-Bataille .

After the First World War, in which his big, handsome, elder brother was killed, small, slight, bespectacled Jean was, at just fourteen, dispatched to Africa to make his fortune. He did all right, and ended up in British Northern Nigeria at Kano running a trading company called SCOA. He became French Consul and a thorn in the side of the double-barrelled, British administration chappies. Their "damned uppity little froggie". He would show me slides of the colourfully robed chieftains on their horses and camels, and tell me about motorcycling back to France across the Sahara.

The Second World War went badly for him; captured in the first weeks, he spent five years as a POW eating nothing but turnips. He also finished learning most of Shakespeare off by heart. Later in life he kept a 'Complete Works' by his bed, the left page in French and the right in English, and he read and studied one page each night. His pride and love for French literature never prevented him from declaring Shakespeare to be the world's greatest author. It was astonishing, years later, when I took him to see Hamlet at Stratford to see him, a Frenchman, mouthing the lines along with the actors

But the war and his imprisonment also brought Madame into the old bachelor’s life. French girls were encouraged to write to any POW's they might know. Madame knew Jean from the tennis club, and so a correspondence began which resulted in a wedding in 1945. Little Madame returned with her new husband to Kano, where she ran his home and learned that peculiar form of English patois the British colonials employed with the locals. When exasperated with my French she would come out with things like 'you done get plenty chop'!

Madame was proud to be considered 'Vielle France'. Old France. Chic, Parisian French would not consider that as a compliment but she very much did.

Monsieur was also small, a stooped man with the tummy of one who clearly loved his food. ‘Mole’, I used to think; Wind in the Willows' Moley was always a favourite character of mine. He wore thick glasses behind which you could just see weak but piercing eyes. He was always reading, with a magnifying glass. Or giving me little lectures, with that wagging finger.

The Cassins had returned from Nigeria in 1958, after Monsieur’s heart attack. He had come home intending to retire, but the President of a local Co-operative cellar came and asked him please to come and save them. The 200 winegrower co-op members were bankrupt. Times were hard, and they'd made the mistake of selling almost all their wine to an American merchant who had, like so many, gone bust on them. Over the years I saw lots of people come to Monsieur, the wise Monsieur, to solve their problems. The Co-op was a very big challenge, though. But he accepted and took over.

He had grown up on a vineyard, but thought that experience far from enough. He enrolled himself as a day-release student of the legendary Professor Emile Peynaud at Bordeaux University Wine Faculty (the Michel Rolland of his day, he consulted for all the top châteaux) – a course he later insisted that I take. He arranged to have the accounts computerised … in the Fifties! Yet at the same time he insisted that Madame Coste and Janine re-use every envelope arriving at the office. They were all to be split open into sheets and tied together with string to make scribble pads. He would never actually buy any scribble pads. Many other innovations and scrooge-like measures gradually got the place back in the black. He sent sales agents around the world and started to build. That winery boomed, and is now huge and prosperous.

After Africa, Madame was delighted to get back to the home where her family had lived for centuries. The Cassins had no children, but Madame taught all Sainte Colombe's children their catechism at Sunday school. And she fought fiercely for her old church against the depredations of that half of the village who were, so they said, Communist. At her funeral, many years later, our hard-nosed, socialist mayor was in floods of tears. She was not nobility, although the nobility certainly thrive in this part of France. You wonder how they survived all that revolutionary egalité, fraternité stuff. … and the guillotine, but survive they certainly did. The country around abounds with old châteaux; this little district of Castillon has more medieval fortified castles, more turrets, towers, castellations per square mile than anywhere else I've ever been. Barons, baronesses and people with surnames prefaced with a 'de' are all over the place. Tall, frighteningly elegant, they incline politely over their non-noble 'equals'. When Castillon church empties out after Sunday Mass it's like there are two separate races here; elves and hobbits.

Madame was from a relatively posh family, unlike Monsieur who was a typical small, round petit-bourgeois … as she would sometimes remind him. Actually, Madame was even smaller … but bird-like … and fizzing with energy, never still. She ran everywhere and talked nonstop. She argued and haggled with everyone. She drove furiously, but would slam on the brakes for any small wild bird in the road and stop to pick up injured ones, to nurse at home. Her family had been the top family in Sainte Colombe for centuries. Though that's not saying a lot; it is a very obscure village. She'd been educated at Le Cours St Seurin (affiliated to Cheltenham Ladies apparently) where all the posh girls went, and so she knew Madame la Baronne de Marcillac and the others, and took tea with them (it’s so English, this part of France … they have, for centuries, been known as the Anglo-Gascons. ). But she was never really happier than wearing her apron, in her kitchen.

Madame conserved everything that was conservable. Not just lots of jams. Lots of pâtés too; rough pâtés done in bocals – kilner jars – and matured for years like fine wine. Rillettes also. And lampreys. Oh, the lampreys! Bought at the market in season, cooked in their own blood with leeks and spices, wine and a little chocolate. Served as the first course, with croutons, on all special occasions.

I came to learn that you could easily have ten courses or more at a proper traditional feast round here. Meals where you started off behind a great pile of maybe ten plates set before you. First course … top plate, the next one down, for second course … and so on. You worked your way down, plate removed after each course. These were Grandes Bouffes … blowouts that lasted till well after dark. And this was the ordinary farm folk, not the aristos.

These bashes didn't happen often. But on the other hand, every single day was built around La Soupe midday meal … when proper respect was paid to what they all spent their lives cultivating, raising and maturing. How I loved that daily worship of what came from their land. I wasn't totally ignorant about food. My mother was a Domestic Science teacher and she certainly could cook! But in the UK meals had come to be regarded as refuelling stops in the working day. And why stop? We invented the sandwich!

In Ste Colombe, I saw it was the other way round … all work was done with the basic aim of having a very good meal every day. The day revolved around that meal. In fact everything seemed to have a set pattern. The week had set days for market and church, the month had its lunar cycles; when to plant and when to harvest. And the whole year revolved around wine … and food. Everything had its season. Winter out pruning vines; a long slow, cold job, though burning the cuttings gives a little warmth. Evenings were in the winery racking and topping up. Spring is protecting the new vine shoots, summer is keep rampant vines in check and healthy. Autumn of course is the vintage, fermenting and all. Also to be fitted in hunting game and mushrooms - cêpes - in the woods, and making foie gras. That's not a bad way to live. It’s still my ambition, but I guess now I won't manage it. However my job gives me visiting rights into this world … which has changed some, but certainly isn't about to die out.

My Life in Wine - Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Sun, 21 Jun 2015 11:30:00 +0000

1965 Going to Bordeaux

My Grandmother Rudd had told the ‘lost’ French lady of her grandson’s desire to work that summer in France and the lady had offered to find me a job. So, June 8th 1965, a week out of school, bundled into André and Leina Bimont’s new white Panhard car in a sweltering, black and shabby-looking Bordeaux, taken to their flat and given a welcome dish of strawberries in chilled red Bordeaux, sprinkled with sugar (Le Pot de Cochon)! But there had been a hiccup. The promised job had fallen through; “Dear Mr Haitswaite, my Aunt died last week … for me a great misfortune … it is absolutely impossible to receive you this year”. Soubie, Domaine de Lisennes.

But the Bimonts were a kind and inspiring couple. André had a business making a scaffolding system he'd invented and Leina had just started to make and sell woven wood fence panels like she'd seen in England. We don't think of France as so very entrepreneurial these days. But back then, with 'Le General' on the throne, it really was quite different and in areas other than pop music and that little 'Swinging' bit of London, 'buzzier' than the UK. Anyway, Entrepreneur is a French word isn’t it? Leina and Andre were almost retired … but having fun. Could running a business actually be fun? Mmm, new idea for the boy who dreaded the very thought of actual work.

These determined folk tried hard to get me a job in Bordeaux, but finally we had to settle for an unpaid job on an archaeological dig out in the sticks in this village called Sainte Colombe near Saint Emilion where a man apparently just wanted someone to do the grunt work. As I was reasonably familiar with a shovel, I went.

I got my first view of Sainte Colombe when we left the main Dordogne valley road and headed towards the ridge that runs along the valley's northern edge. Back then it was mostly woods and fields with just a few striped patches of vineyards; wine here having had a hard time of it for the last hundred years. The wine boom was still some years off. We headed into one of the little side valleys, one larger than most. The road wandered from farmhouse to farmhouse. They were all small, with barns, in pale stone, but all had signs that proclaimed them to be 'Château something-or-other’. There was only one, up on the right, that actually looked like a real château, small, cute, with a tower and central courtyard. Little did I know we would one day buy it … but I mustn’t get ahead of myself.

We drove on towards the church tower and the few houses gathered around it. This was the Bourg of Sainte Colombe; all cosy and protected by its wooded ridge from the cold north winds. A particularly warm place to live and, presumably, why there were the ruins of a Roman Villa here that needed excavating. The tall palm trees, I really liked the look of. This must be an especially sunny spot, no? I was going to enjoy summer here. Love at first sight, really. I just wanted to write postcards home immediately. But there were no postcards. And the village had no shop. It had nothing, really, just farms and houses. But that first day I did start writing and even drawing and I have never stopped since.

I was at first happy working with my new archaeological friends who gave me not a shovel but a small brush. Apparently archaeology was different to working as a navvy on building sites. But alas the young archeologists all left after the weekend, and I sat in the hot dust alone, scrabbling away at the remains of this Gallo-Roman villa. And the weather just got hotter. And hotter. And dustier . And there was nobody around. Nothing. No cars. No movement at all. The houses were all shuttered and quiet...apart from the cicadas going frantic. What I didn’t then realise was there were people here, but they were all inside, in the cool. They'd all been up since dawn, working their fields and vineyards. When I came out – late-ish, after a little too much wine with supper – to work in the sun, they were already back in the cool. I was the classic mad dog Englishman who didn’t know that here, as they had done for centuries, they still follow l'heure soleil, not the clock. They do still.

I still have this picture in my head of an old guy, small, bent, but about four feet wide at the shoulder, coming slowly down the hill behind two white oxen. I must have looked close to expiring in my dusty hole. He was looking at me and shaking his head in a pitying sort of way. He pointed to the blazing heavens and wagged a ‘no, no, no’ finger at me. He indicated my bare head and waved the finger again. I had understood that southern Europeans were a bit lazy. But when it’s in the high thirties and no-one’s got any air conditioning... well, I mean, don’t be daft. But I was, and so I did, soon after, get sunstroke.

The dig had uncovered walls, mosaic floors, and, of huge significance, two four foot by four foot, stone-built, cement-faced square high-sided basins. They thought they must have been wine vats… 1600 years old. No-one else knows about these things because the following year the château that owned the land where the dig was, got sold and the new owner just flattened everything to plant vines! She should have been locked up. But we had, briefly, proof that Ste Colombe was, early on, seen as a good place to make wine.

Not being able to fend for myself, I was directed up the hill to lodge with an old couple called Cassin, in another of the six hamlets that go to make up Sainte Colombe, called Lardit. And that was hugely significant.

"C'est bien un Anglais, celui-la", Monsieur Cassin said to Madame that first evening as they watched me floundering towards them across their vineyard, the nineteen-year-old, freshly-landed in France and supposed to be lodging in their house. It had taken me a while but I'd finally found my way out of the 'dig', past the church, up the hill on the path through the woods, past the Mairie to Lardit ... and now there was just this vineyard to cross. This worried-looking old couple stood the other side. I could see them shaking their heads as I fought my way across the rows of vines.

Which of course is NOT what you do, as vines in Bordeaux are strung along wire fences … many, many parallel rows of wire fences. You have to be very stupid to try to go across them. The Cassins welcomed me in anyway.

And my life changed totally.

My subsequent wine life only happened because of those two in that vineyard, called La Clariere. They were that day, and till the end, just 'Monsieur' and 'Madame' to me. In 40 years I never called them anything else. I told people they were my 'French Parents'. And although they always kept it formal and never addressed me as 'tu', but always 'vous’, they did actually like me. Even if I was Anglais. Très English apparently.

In France, I had a lot to learn. At school I hadn't learnt much, certainly not French. The Cassins were a little shocked by that, but had agreed to help out the archaeologist who was employing me on a basis of no wages, food and lodgings only. So the Cassins bravely took me in.

Well...not quite 'in'. Always a cautious couple, they put me in the barn. Not actually in the hay, but a small side room with a bed. A big bed with ancient linen sheets, very thick and coarse, that were wonderfully cool on hot nights. They were antique sheets, with Madame’s very elaborate cipher embroidered on them, by her, at school. There was a bowl on a stand to wash in, with a big jug to fetch water from the pump in the yard. The rest of my bathroom was fifty yards down the vegetable garden. It was not a ‘WC’ water closet, just a closet … an earth closet. Let’s skip the details … but you can understand how come it was such a bountiful vegetable garden.

And what Madame could do with those vegetables and her hens, pigs, geese and ducks was something miraculous. I loved the whole barn-living thing but it was the food that was the best bit. And the wine wasn’t bad at all.

I wasn’t very used to wine, but it grew on you. "This is the life!" I thought. I didn't then realise that it was, actually, going to be my whole life. Not just that wine. Not just that vineyard, that village and the town and district of Castillon on the Dordogne … but the whole world of wine. In 50 years I have not found a nicer world.

My Life in Wine - Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Fri, 19 Jun 2015 09:35:00 +0000

50 YEARS UP!

Fifty years ago today on June 8th I finally fled school and, convinced by Brigitte Bardot, Inspecteur Maigret, Le Moulin Rouge and croissants that the French way of life was the one for me, immediately crossed over the English Channel.

As it happens, that same year – 1965 – a young journalist called Hugh Johnson also set off researching his first book; ‘Wine’. But he can tell his own story … and rather well, I guess. Which is why pictures of our younger selves currently adorn the Laithwaite’s Wine box you may just have received.

My story is … somehow I ended up with a job in a wine-making village called Sainte Colombe, near Bordeaux and it was like living in the Middle Ages. They were all still wearing clogs, and berets, the men were in ‘bleu de travaille’ the women in floral aprons, the grannies always in black. No Grand Estates here; they were all small farmers. From sunrise, men worked their small, tidy little plots of vines with oxen, mules or horses, weaving plough and harrow in and out between their vines and they all developed that front-row prop-forward look; massive, thick necks and shoulders. The women did the ‘petit facons’; the lighter work, trimming and tying vines with willow shoots. They often worked in groups to help each other; it was all very sociable. There was laughter and Ooooh! such rudery. I couldn’t speak French but certainly understood the gestures!

At midday the siren down the valley in Castillon-la-Bataille would moan, and everyone would just vanish. They went to the most important part of their day; their ‘soupe’ which was actually a lot more than soup, and then their very necessary little ‘sieste’. All went silent except for the frantic cidadas in the sun. When it cooled, everyone came out for a bit more work until dark, maybe tending the lettuces, carrots, tomatoes and such that they grew as catch-crops, between vine rows near the house. Or they’d collect wood – over which many still cooked – or scythe the road verges to fatten up their delicious rabbits. They’d pick fruit and nuts from trees that, back then, dotted their vineyards, collect corn for chickens, pigeons and ducks, and they’d go hunting for cepes and mushrooms. The men would climb up tall scaffolding towers in the woods and shoot at anything – truly anything - that moved. The women would milk the cow, feed peelings to the pig and corn to the poultry, then kill something for dinner. Evenings, the men would be in their cellars for remontage, or filtering or bottling or sampling with friends; essential checking on how the wine was coming along … ho, ho, ho! There were no TV’s, no fridges, no cars, no tractors. The village of Sainte Colombe was poor … but seemed very happy.

I was English, a Lancastrian - firmly Lancastrian - born amid tall, black chimneys and mills in 1945 … though I had grown up mostly in prettier, southern towns. However my favourite place as a boy was always Uncle Noah’s ‘Top o’ t’Hill’ farm on Rivington moor above Bolton. Constant daydreaming about that traditional small, tenant farm; the tractor-driving, haymaking, milking and collecting eggs, got me in so much trouble at school.

So is it at all surprising that I totally fell for Sainte Colombe, its people and ancient way of life? I did. So much so that I – we – still live there 50 years later. Except that’s not quite true; since 1965 I’ve sort of ‘commuted’ between my Saint Colombe home and my other – UK – home, near the Thames Valley headquarters of Laithwaite’s Wine; the wine company which grew from its beginnings in little Sainte Colombe. The Company grew up, went out and travelled and trekked, and still keeps going around the entire wine world.

It grew because since 1965, the good wine-loving people back home had shown great interest not just in the wines but in what really went on in the wine world. Encouraged by them, I started writing and talking rather a lot, as I busily poured the wines … and I have never stopped. I have, it seems, no off-switch for wine words.

But now, getting on a bit, not ‘wine trekking’ quite so much and getting all soft and nostalgic, I’m going to go back to the beginning and tell the story of 50 years in wine, in blog form. Then, if you seem to like it (all comments welcome) maybe someone will make it into a book. Like someone did once before; (‘Laithwaite’s Great Wine Trek Part 1’ can still be found – very cheap - on the web and in secondhand bookshops!)

It’s a very long story, which you might find a scary thought. I certainly do. But, God willing, I’m going to tell it all anyway: How it was my Sainte Colombe friend and mentor who gave me – unemployed and pretty much unemployable – the idea of starting a Company called ‘Bordeaux Direct’ with its long-distance delivery-round; how my girlfriend had to come in and sort out my finances – her words: ‘the mess’; how Fairy Godmother Sunday Times waved her magic wand; and the twenty five profitless years that ended in a heart attack. Then how everything had to change for the next twenty five roller-coaster years to now, where things – touch wood – don’t look too bad at all, really.

I plan – I will try very hard - not to bang on too much about me. Instead, I want to tell the stories of the wine men and women in every wine region of the world who have taught me wine. And I’ll pass on just what they taught me, about how the wine world really works, which is often somewhat odd, and not always what you find in wine books.

The first character on stage, the one who started the whole thing rolling, is my maternal grandmother; ‘Big Nana’ Florence Rudd, who never knew anything about wine.

Nana Rudd ran her corner grocery shop and the family too. A very strong personality, she had me – and my long-suffering parents – well under her thumb. Maybe she inculcated some basic business sense in me, but it would have been very basic. Later on, £700 of her hard-earned savings was vital in getting our business started. (Note to would-be entrepreneurs; always ensure you have the right sort of Granny; usually much safer than one of those rapacious ‘Dragon’ types … as we found out the hard way!)

It all began one hot summer’s day in 1964, when staying with us in Windsor, this formidable, Lancastrian 'rescued' a lost French tourist (who wasn't lost at all, but just couldn't get a word in edgeways) and dragged her home for a reviving tea. Our Florrie’s attempt at noble action set a whole, long chain of events in motion that has led us to today’s Laithwaite's Wine: “the most successful wine merchant on the planet” – really?

Because that French lady came from … (trumpets off) ‘BORDEAUX’.

To be continued

Nikki in New Zealand - a trip to Wairu River

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Sat, 25 Apr 2015 10:30:00 +0000

Trip to Wairau River

Nice trip to the Wairau River cellar. They are only round the corner from Forrest Wines and supply Laithwaite's with a couple of major brands. There's a proper story to tell here, but even when that's already been written down, it's always worth seeing everything yourself, firsthand.

The avenue of trees that leads up to the
Wairau River cellar

They are certainly bigger than Forrest, 450,000 cases, but still very much, even fiercely, 100% family owned and run. Founders Phil and Chris Rose were farmers, then fruit growers, who finally turned to growing grapes instead ... one of the first in the area. They raised five children while they were starting the new business and today all five, voluntarily, have gone into the business, as have their partners ... except one, who is in banking, so that's useful too. And there are 12 grandchildren so far, who could do the same.

Wairau River vineyards bathed in sunshine

The original winery was built in 2002 and has been extended considerably as they have expanded. Even then Phil and Chris had the foresight to plan for the future and, in the early days of 2002, invested in a bottling line, to ensure everything remained in-house. And it's stayed very much that way today.

Anyway, won't get too boring and techy, but it was very interesting. The young red wine maker, Nick, was really excited about what he was doing, the experiments they were up to, the new equipment ... he was overflowing with information. It was great. They are doing three 'natural' wines, which is a real departure for them, but what's in demand in Sydney apparently. The wines are called The Funk, The Soul and The Hipster! Lunch was extremely tasty at their fancy bistro place there. How very nice.

This basket press was a whole lot fancier and more automated
than the one we used in the Barossa

There is a strong connection with this winery and Hunter's down the road. As the Rose children grew up, they often spent time with Jane Hunter, while Mum and Dad were busy working and the two families often shared wine experiences, too.

The picture above shows the fancy modern basket press that Wairau River has. The winemaker, Nick, showed us the 'cake' of skins and pips that is the end result and was telling me how they stuck rocket fireworks in one of the first cakes from it – bit of a spectacle. Don't think Dan at RedHeads will get any ideas – we could never get the cake off in one piece!

Nikki in New Zealand - a sad farewell

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Fri, 24 Apr 2015 10:30:00 +0000

Bannockburn fruit arrives, digging out ... and sad farewell

Snow had arrived down in Central Otago, up on the mountain caps, and the fruit was ready to pick in the vineyard – the Riesling and the Pinot Noir. Samples had been sent up regularly to John and the team to assess, and come Sunday afternoon the handpicking started. All Monday and all Tuesday it continued, with 34 bins arriving at Forrest at 6am on Tuesday morning and 39 bins on Wednesday morning.

The Pinot Noir – all three clones of 777, 667 and 115 – were looking tip top, healthy, ripe. The Riesling had a touch of rot here and there, but Dave wasn't worried, that would "all come out in the wash", so to speak. They were expecting it from thin-skinned Riesling.

The Pinot Noir grapes being tipped into the receival
bin for destemming

It was very cold first thing this morning – five layers on
I still needed to jump about to keep warm

The grapes arrived by lorry in the individual bins and each of those had to be weighed before they were put through the destemmer. A few were kept whole bunch and added to a couple of the vats to bring more fruitiness to the blend through carbonic maceration.

Meanwhile, it was time for some of the Marlborough Pinot Noir to come out of tank and be put into barrel. First the wine is drained off and put into tank, then the residual solids – skins, pips, lees and so on – are dug out. And 'sweetly' Beth said no vintage experience would be complete without a dig out. Yes, it was my turn to get back into the tank and dig it out. Well, I hadn't done one since leaving the Barossa.

Just as a 'bonus' the Wall Street Journal were at the winery doing an article on Forrest Wines, so the experience was documented. Not only by the professional cameraman, but John also had to get a few shots in too!

What a deep pit of a tank

Dirty hands again ... just as I was getting them clean

With a door at the bottom of the tank, it was a whole lot easier shovelling out than it had been in the Barossa at least.

And it was good to get my hands dirty again!

Big thanks to everyone at Forrest Wines for making me so very welcome indeed. It's been a really great experience. I've learnt a lot, particularly from the great man himself, and had a thoroughly fab time.

Much easier shuffling out with my hands
I decided

Mark Hoddy in Oz - The Big Barossa

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Thu, 23 Apr 2015 10:00:00 +0000

These days it seems everyone talks about the small estates that produce limited releases of quirky and micro cuvées, whacky varietals and so on. But how about giving the larger wineries and famous big names a little bit of praise, too? They may be all-controlling taking the majority of the market share with their big blends, but these well-priced wines are often what the general tourist and wine drinker wants. Also, remember that these pioneering wineries all started from scratch and formed the foundation upon which South Australian wine still stands today.

I find the big names rather interesting from a marketing point of view. And you have to admire their ability to make very good, well-priced large blends … and to be honest I want to get the T-shirt and say I've visited them! So today I decided I would put on the tourist cap/bumbag/sandals and socks and visit the big, well-known wineries to see for myself.

First up was Wolf Blass in the northern part of the Barossa, a couple of clicks outside of Nurioopta. The huge winery was found easily with more signs than you could shake a stick out and the cellar door access is directly off the motorway with its own exit! Easy peasy.

You are greeted by the pristinely clean car park and the smooth, immaculate circular visitor centre surrounded by the usual over-watered, bright-green lawns and, of course, the giant bronze eagle so synonymous with the Wolf Blass labels.

Like most of the big Aussie winery names, it was all started by one person … in this case the German Wolfgang Blass. Back in 1966, he recognised the potential of the wines that could be made here in the Barossa. He famously said his style of red and white wines would “make strong women weak and weak men strong” he also stated “no table wine over 15% vol should ever get any medal. Anywhere in the world, ever”, so perhaps that’s why all the Wolf Blass wines are 14.9% vol...??!

The cellar door is bright, immaculate, airy and the dominated by the enormous trophy cabinet (it’s like the Bernabeu stadium in Madrid!) The tasting bench is sleek as are the staff and the glasses and a tasting list are slid under your nose without you even noticing.

I tasted the White Label Piccadilly Valley (Adelaide Hills) Chardonnay and the Eden Valley Riesling which were cold, fresh and fine. The Adelaide Hills 2012 Cabernet at $49 a bottle seemed a little steep for the money, but it tasted ok and the hundred-odd other visitors seemed to love the wines. Plenty of mixed cases of wine were being sold, along with branded hats, t-shirts and, of course, the branded bum bag.

Before leaving I decided to try the Brown Label Classic Shiraz 2012 … apparently a re-release of an original label from the 1970's. With its $50 price tag it was the most expensive free wine on offer for tasting, very oaky and mocha dominant … but I do like the label.

Next I headed back to Tanunda and for the Peter Lehmann Estate. This property has was purchased by Casella back in December for a tidy sum of AUD$57 million. In true Casella fashion they have ramped up the production for their first vintage in charge and doubled the fruit processed at the Lehman cellar compared to the previous vintage. They’re now challenging TWE for the position of Australia’s second largest wine company.

The cellar door has a nice feel and staff are super-friendly with good wine knowledge. I started with their cold fresh Fino sherry; great at $18. The Barossa Verdejo is a good low-alcohol option and the 2009 Semillon is light, zesty and aromatic. For the reds I enjoyed the silky and fresh 2011 Mentor Cabernet. The Ruediger 2013 Cabernet is bigger and bolder and although the 2010 Stonewell Shiraz may be $100 it’s ripe, earthy and chocolaty with dark cherry fruit and a peppery finish.

The gardens are really lovely, the sun was shining and my stomach was saying lunch. I ordered a platter that came with cured meats, nuts, local cheeses, bread crackers and a glass of red. I thoroughly enjoyed the lunch out on the relaxed terrace overlooking the lawns. Nice job, Mr Lehmann, I hope Casella can continue your hard work and passion.

Feeling revitalised I made my way south through Tanunda to the last visit of the day, Jacobs Creek. Everyone knows this brand and I was keen to see what their cellar door was like. Jacobs Creek’s first release was a 1973 vintage ‘Claret’ wine back in 1976. I even have a 1983 bottle of Jacobs Creek ‘Claret’ in my cellar back in Bordeaux and have often strangely looked at it thinking if it might miraculously be still good to drink.

The entrance to the 'visitor centre' is unmistakable with its grand landscaped entrance where a sign informs you that the wine tasting is 800m down the drive. As you meander down the driveway though the pruned and strategically placed gum trees and gardens you finally arrive at the new cellar door; sorry; visitor centre! They have everything here for a full day without having to leave the sprawling estate, even bike trails.

I wanted to buy a bottle of the blend they are so famous for, to taste blind with winemaker mates later on. It was $10. They asked me if I was in the trade to which I replied yes without attracting attention and they gave me 40% off! I am not going to argue with that!

Later on no one got the wine in the blind tasting. It didn't win but with the Bbq food the bottle ended empty without complaint! Maybe I will open that 83'?!

All these big names had changed the name 'cellar door' to 'visitor centre' but everywhere we went people were enjoying themselves and confident with the wines. I guess they were comforted by the array of silverware as they handed over their dollars before heading out into the sunshine to enjoy a cheese platter in the manicured gardens. And why not? I did. But I didn’t buy a branded bum bag.

Nikki in New Zealand - screwcaps and ageing

noreply@blogger.com (Tony Laithwaite) — Wed, 22 Apr 2015 10:00:00 +0000

Screwcaps and ageing

As it traditional around the world, once harvest is underway and crazy hours of 24/7 or similar are underway, a cellar tends to put on the food. Here at Forrest Wines, there's always a hearty breakfast for the crew that started at 3am or 4am – bacon, eggs benedict, spicy beans or whatever. And for those on the late shift or all-night shift, there's supper catered for.

Living with John and Brigid Forrest at their house on the estate over this harvest period I've been part of that too ... and the very interesting collection of wines we've had with supper. Chris and Gus are the vintage supper boys, the only two on the late shift, and it's been Chris on the whole who has brought over a couple of mystery bottles.

We also had a delicious bottle of the 2002
Botrytised Riesling – a wonderful sweetie
that was still ageing very gracefully in its 75cl format

What's this got to do with 'screwcaps and ageing'? Well, the mystery bottles have tended to be from the Forrest Library. Then we'd play the game of 'What grape?', under 5 years, 5-10 years or 10-15? and perhaps drill down further. And what has been amazing is how young and vibrant very many of the old wines have tasted.

And yes, since 2001, they have all been under screwcap! Quelle surprise! Or perhaps, not really. I didn't realise initially, but John in fact was one of the original four (along with John Belsham, John Stichbury and the late Ross Lawson) who founded the Screwcap Initiative in 2001. Now bottles under screwcap in the last ten years have increased from 100 million to three billion worldwide (out of a total of 7 billion total), while 90% of New Zealand's wines are under screwcap closure. That's a huge shift.

John's fundemental point is why on earth would you firstly add an extra flavour, one that you don't want ie cork, even a healthy cork, to your perfect wine? The original Initiative proved that these corks were not neutral by putting various different types of cork in different glasses of acidified water. All left some colour taint and flavour. Secondly why add in the gamble of closing your precious wine with a closure that, at best, is variable and, at worst, 10% of the time adds a fault – mustiness of varying degrees.

Hence Forrest's move to screwcap in 2001.

So, back to what we tasted – the 2001 John Forrest Chenin Blanc (wow! honeyed candied fruit, apricot notes, buttery and a bit toasty – in top form, probably my favourite of the 3 weeks), John Forrest Chardonnay 2004 (creamy buttery fruit with super weight, balance and length and tasting youthful!), Tatty Boglar Pinot Grigio 2007 (this one was Northern Otago and had luscious peach fruit, with freshness and roundness), and Forrest Gewurztraminer 2003 (perhaps a tad light for Gewurz, but otherwise classic rose petal and spice). Only one we tried – a Chardonnay – was a tad oxidised. We even had a Forrest rosé 2009 – ancient for a rosé – that was very drinkable indeed. It still had gentle fruit, had lost a bit of zip, but was definitely very enjoyable imbibing.

The Doctor certainly attributes this freshness to the screwcap closure. He can't imagine entrusting his best wines, indeed any of his wines, to the random nature of cork anymore. And that's the same for most of what I've seen in New Zealand. Wairau River showed me their bottling line, bought in 2002, and where they had the capacity to insert corks into a bottle, they'd even bought the corks, but had not once used the facility.

Interestingly, however, at Auntsfield, site of Marlborough's oldest vineyard dating back to 1860, Ben Cowley said he was putting their top Pinot Noir back under cork. They only produce a thousand cases of Pinot Noir, but he said it would open all sorts of new markets if the wine had a cork closure. That's what customers want when they pay $80+ for a bottle. Indeed, he said touring Europe, France in particular, he found many sommeliers totally unfamiliar with screwcaps, attacking the closure with a corkscrew!

A selection of Forrest Wines, all under screwcap except the 2000 on the left

Secondly, he was up for corks in these top Pinot Noirs because he liked the romance of it, that every bottle will be unique and age just slightly differently ... a more natural wine, perhaps. And certainly a different point of view from John.

At Rockford Wines in the Barossa, they also told me that their Basket Press Shiraz was closed with cork, allowing the wine to breathe a little and gain the complexity from ageing. So the jury is still out for some.

Meanwhile, John and Brigid went to their infrequent wine group gathering to enjoy a selection of blind bottles on Friday. Guess which was wine of the night? 1998 Forrest Chenin Blanc ... with a cork closure. The first bottle of it they opened was a little oxidised, the second was sublime!