In November The Guardian published an 1800-odd word article about natural wine of which approximately zero said anything new. Not that it had to. A piece called “The cult of natural wine – ‘this is like punk or acid house’” was bound to rip through the Internet like wild fire, breaking news or none.
One week of drinking (soy) milk with dinner and one day after I saw the bottle of bourbon-barrel Mondavi in the fridge, it was time to get the hell out of what – if you’re the volatile lookin’, gun n’ cuffs n’ taser totin’ border control officer handling my passport – I’ll call “home for the
Christmas means different things to everyone but to me it means dodging career talks and getting new pyjamas. It doesn’t stop there – There is much, much more not to like. To pick but a few from the Grinch’s hat: Rampant commercialism, Christmas music, Christmas TV, Christmas hats, him and her and ‘for the cooks in
I’d like to propose a toast to the Georgian grape harvest. To Georgia’s ancient ladies and their pirate knives and three-legged stools, their hair in scarves to deflect the burrs I still find in my socks. To a total lack of mechanisation, organisation and weather stations; and to zero early starts. To Ramaz’s family
I don’t know if personality can change a wine, but it can change the feel of a harvest. In September I worked on two vendange teams: two days with François Blanchard and five for Baptiste and Olivier Cousin. And though both work with horses, the experiences could not have been more different. First, François Blanchard. François lives
What you should know about Ramaz Nikoladze is that he eats chillies whole, listens to punk and has a great former stray cat that he once drove 3.5 hours to the vet, who slept on our bed and whose name we said wrong for days until someone finally asked who we were talking about. He lives