François Audouze on Old Wine, Rare Bottles & Pleasure

I recently had the distinct pleasure of sitting down with François Audouze. He does not come from a wine family. He is a former steel industrialist who ran multiple publicly traded companies across France and Britain. But over the past five decades, he has built what may be the most experienced palate for old wine the world has ever seen. What followed was a fascinating and enlightening conversation about a lifetime spent opening bottles that most people would never dare (or dream) to touch.\

Your grandfather was in the steel business, but your family also had a cooper and a caviste in Sedan. Growing up, did wine ever feel like part of your world?

My family's past in wine is so small that it played no role. When I was a schoolboy, every Sunday there was a family lunch with my two parents and my four grandparents. They drank wine and appreciated it, but there was no discussion about wine. And none of them would ever have thought of drinking a Haut-Brion or a Montrachet, because they would never have had the idea of buying such wines.

When my parents died, I inherited fewer than 30 bottles of ordinary wine. Wine was not among my interests.

Wine appeared in my life when I bought a house in 1970. The house had a cellar, and it seemed logical to try to put wine in it. A company, Nicolas, had hundreds of shops in France. I went there to taste wines and put the ones that pleased me in the cellar. The criteria for buying was my palate.

As I worked enormously hard to develop the family steel company, I had no time to read books. My palate was the judge. I began naturally with Bordeaux, because there is a classification that's easy to understand. I had no time to understand Burgundy.

You've talked about tasting Climens 1923 in 1976 as the moment everything changed. What were you drinking before that, and what did you think wine was supposed to be?

I had become a significant buyer at the Nicolas shop not far from my home, and the Nicolas Group — which had the most important cellar of old wines at the time — sent a catalog of old wines to their best customers at Christmas. I began to buy a few old wines.

A friend of mine said to me, “You love wine, come to a grocery shop. Every Friday at 6 p.m., the owner runs a blind tasting.” I had never done that before. The Climens 1923 was a shock, because I had never drunk anything so complex. This was the moment I decided I would explore the world of old wines in earnest.

For the Climens 1923, I had no idea what it could be, and I did not try to guess.

In those years, I was leading a group of seventy publicly traded companies, and wine was a sort of pastime. I purchased aged wines compulsively because I felt that the truth lies in aged wines, and because I wanted to taste everything, to discover new sensations. But while I was busy with my business affairs, when a friend would ask me, "Do you remember the sublime wine we had last Wednesday?", I wouldn't recall — my brain was focused on managing the company. That is why I started keeping the empty bottles. They helped my memory.

When you started buying at auction in the late 1970s, what did the rooms look like? Who else was bidding on pre-war wines, and what were they selling for?

When I began buying at auction, it was completely different from what it is today. Every bottle was presented by the auctioneer, and you could see it. All the buyers were in the room. No phones, no screens — I knew who my opponent might be, and I talked with him.

The competition was with merchants and a few wine lovers whom I came to know. We fought for wines from the 1920s or older, then the 1940s, and so on.

Your method — slow oxygenation, no decanting, several hours of breathing — is now famous. Was there a single bottle that convinced you decanting was wrong, or did it come gradually?

My wife does not drink. At home, we never drink except when we are with friends. For a Christmas dinner — it was probably 1977 or 1978 — I decided to open a bottle of wine. It was a Chambertin 1929, producer unknown. I loved it. I drank only half. The next day, I decided to drink the rest, and the perfume was so immense that I was completely struck. I decided to find out why, and I began observing how the smells of the bottles I opened evolved. I discovered that if I do not pour a glass, the aromatic evolution is more favorable.

I discovered that with slow oxygenation, the wine, once served, will stay perfect and will not collapse — contrary to what so many people believe. My method was created by observing what happens to wine.

The most striking confirmation came years later, at one of my dinners with Alain Senderens. I had opened a 1956 Romanée Conti that I had initially pronounced dead at the moment of opening — the nose was that bad. Six hours later, after slow oxygenation, the wine had completely revived. Senderens turned to the guests at the table and said, "You could never imagine that what you are drinking is the same wine as what was opened six hours ago." That sentence, from a chef of his stature, mattered to me. I believe around 50% of the bottles thrown away as dead were in fact great wines.

You've hosted hundreds of wine dinners. When you sit down with a Michelin-starred chef and tell them the food must serve the wine, not the other way around. How do they usually react?

I have never cooked, and as for wine, I follow my palate. When I began my dinners, I was very humble, but the dialogue became more and more friendly over time. I developed friendships with chefs. And, to my great surprise, they listen to my suggestions.

The problem that sometimes appeared was when I asked them to simplify their recipes. It was not always easy, but we succeeded. When I once suggested this to Christian Le Squer, he replied, "But how can a chef showcase his talent?" Our friendship deepened over many meals afterward, and he came to understand what I was asking for.

Other chefs surprised me with their openness. Pascal Barbot — a three-star chef — welcomed me by taking out a notebook and pen to transcribe what I was saying. I was astounded that a chef of his standing would do that. And in Beijing, Daniel Boulud told my guests: "I have hosted hundreds of grand wine dinners, but I have never encountered anyone as discerning as François Audouze." I had visited days in advance to verify every dish on the menu.

I have a fusional relationship with Arnaud Donckele — three stars at Plénitude Cheval Blanc Paris and three stars at Cheval Blanc Saint-Tropez — and together we create incredible combinations of food and wine. More and more, I try to break the rules, creating unusual pairings. The chefs enjoy these challenges and are accepting of my ideas.

Let's walk through the last century decade by decade. Starting with the 1920s — you've called Chambertin 1929 a turning point in your life. What defines that decade in the glass?

For me, wine never stops improving. I mean great wine. So to me, 1928 and 1929 are the greatest years of the century. I have drunk 200 wines from 1928 since I began keeping notes in 2000, and 246 wines from 1929.

I cannot describe this decade except to say that the older a wine is, the greater its complexity. It is a difficult idea to accept, but let me give an example. Château Latour 2009 is a very great wine. But it is a small child compared to Latour 1929. And Latour 2009 will reach the perfection of the 1929 only when it is 80 years older.

Every wine lover understands that a Cognac improves with age. He agrees about Chartreuse. He will understand it for Château Chalon and approve it for Sauternes and Port. Curiously, he will not accept it for red and white wines — and there is a reason: he does not know how to open old wines.

I would go further: Robert Parker did a disservice to aged wines by talking about a maturity plateau followed by decline. What a mistake. When an enthusiast drinks a wine from 1934, they tend to think the wine is on a decline. That is an error. The wine isn't declining — it is on a step, a plateau. It is in a state of balance. One doesn't sense it falling; one tastes the equilibrium specific to the year 1934.

Since I consider the evolution of wine over the decades to be a positive evolution, the 1920s are the greatest expression of that evolution — though I would say the 19th century is even better.

If I had to name the best vintages of the century, they would be:

• 1928 and 1929

• 1945 and 1947

• 1959 and 1961

• 1982

• 1989 and 1990

The older are better than the younger, but each group will reach the level of the older when they have the same age.

The 1930s and 1940s — war, neglect, devastation. And yet some of the wines from 1945 and 1947 are extraordinary. How do you explain that? Can you share with us in more detail your experience tasting the 1945 DRC Romanée Conti?

The 1930s, except 1934 and 1937 in Bordeaux and 1933 and 1934 in Burgundy, were a cold decade. And the 1940s have a variety of vintages that comes far more from the climate than from the effect of the war.

The Romanée Conti parcel had retained its pre-phylloxera vines, and by 1945 those vines were 200 years old and so exhausted that the decision was made to pull them up and replace them with young vines. The 1945 production was just 600 bottles, against the usual 4,000 to 7,000, and since there was no Romanée Conti made from 1946 through 1950, the 1945 became a symbol and a myth.

When I finally had the chance to drink a bottle, I opened it alongside a 1955 as a reference. The black, greasy cork gave an immediate indication: there was no way this wine was a fake. It is a typical, ugly cork, the kind one finds at the Domaine de la Romanée Conti throughout the 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s. The smell was not perfect, and I had hoped all the bad notes would disappear, but in fact some olfactory defects remained. I was thinking: oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Was my desire about to be ruined?

But because surprises always come with wine, the taste had absolutely no flaw. The color was heavy and the taste dense and weighty — typical of pre-phylloxera wines. And then came the complexity, the freshness, the imperishable length.

Two seconds of my life were eternity. I ate a bite of Wagyu, and when I drank the 1945, the entire history of the universe was in my glass. A moment of stratospheric happiness. Romanée Conti 1945 is made for Wagyu, and vice versa. It was the shock of an instant. The grandeur of the fatty meat made the wine's generosity explode.

Is this a great Romanée Conti? For my own taste, I actually prefer the 1955. But for legend, this wine is the legend. I will always remember the force of the pre-phylloxera, the incredible length, the complexity. It is a wholly precious moment in my life. Five hours later, I was still smiling.

The 1950s and 1960s — before the modern market, before modern winemaking. When you open wines from this era, what would you say is the most memorable difference from what's made today?

This question is very interesting, because I am unable to fully answer it. I drink a wine for itself, and I concentrate on what I drink. I listen to my emotions. That is what matters, and I try to understand the interplay between food and wine.

I tell all lovers of old wine: concentrate on your emotions, not on knowledge. Too many people analyze the components of a wine, the grape varieties. I do not care, because analysis is reduction. Wine is not an object of science but an object of emotion. My dear friend Aubert de Villaine tells me that nobody writes about wine better than I do, that he immensely enjoys my commentary, and he agrees with me that at the end of the day, nobody truly cares whether it tastes like banana, toffee, or fruit.

It is really only about the emotion the wine invokes in you.

To come back to the 50s and 60s: they are fascinating. The 60s are the best decade for Champagne.

These decades have two wonderful vintages — 1959 and 1961 — which are great and will continue to improve.

I have drunk 380 wines from 1959 and 320 wines from 1961. Hermitage La Chapelle 1961 is the greatest red wine I have ever drunk.

Aubert de Villaine shares my view: La Tâche 1962 is the greatest La Tâche ever produced.

The 1970s are when you started collecting. That decade has a mixed reputation. What are some of the best bottles that you have had from this decade?

1971 in Champagne is great. 1978 in Bordeaux is great. 1979 in Burgundy is great. If I had to choose one wine, it would be Pétrus 1975.

The 1980s brought a time when more and more Burgundy producers started to bottle their own wines instead of using négociants. What were your thoughts at the time all this was happening?

I have no answer to this question. 1982 is a great year in Bordeaux, though not in Burgundy. Great for Champagne. 1989 is a very great year for many regions. The wines of this decade will continue to improve and improve.

By the 2000s, the market was exploding and the counterfeiting scandals arrived. What was it like watching this happen, especially as more and more old bottles were being counterfeited?

We could discuss this subject for hours and hours. If you are a wine lover, you must be cautious. But you must also know how to take risks. A life without risk means you will never find the best. For the DRC Romanée Conti 1945, I analyzed the risk. I took it, and I am so happy I did.

My ability to take that kind of risk did not come from nothing. Years earlier, I had written a thesis on the life of corks for the Amorim Academy, and recently I donated my entire collection of corks to the Amorim company. The cork is the key. It tells you almost everything about a bottle — whether it is genuine, how it has been stored, whether the wine inside has been protected. When I held the cork from the 1945 Romanée Conti, I knew immediately that the bottle was real. That kind of knowledge is what allows you to take risks intelligently.

You've tasted wines from multiple centuries. At extreme age — 60, 80, 100 years — does Pinot Noir or Cabernet have more to say?

Starting from the 1882 vintage, I have tasted wines from every vintage without exception. The oldest I have ever drunk is estimated to be from 1690.

Who can imagine that I have drunk a Château Latour 1794 — one of the best Latours I have ever had? I opened the bottle, and it was a miracle.

My best ever Yquem is 1861. My best ever Lafite is 1844. My best ever Beaune Grèves Vigne de l'Enfant Jésus is 1865. My best ever Château Chalon is 1865. My best ever Montrachet is 1865.

The Montrachet 1865 came to me through Bernard Hervet, who was then General Manager of Bouchard Père & Fils. He had said to me: "You should come and drink our Montrachets from the 1860s, they are sublime." I love old wines, but a white wine a century and a half old — I would have been surprised if it were good. The Montrachet Bouchard 1865 is the greatest white wine of my life. While I was drinking it, the Earth stopped spinning, and I was surrounded in a bubble of perfection.

I once opened, for friends, a Malvasia from the Canary Islands, 1828. All my friends said: in 200 years, this wine would be exactly the same. We had reached perfection.

In all these examples, the grape variety plays no role. It is the emotion that matters.

I should add this: I have said that wines continue to improve with age, but of course wines will die if they are not drunk in time. Generally, death comes from the death of the cork. It is not the wine that dies, it is the cork that fails to do its job. It becomes fragile, it can fall into the bottle, and the wine evaporates.

Many wine lovers would not agree with this view, generally because they have had bad experiences — experiences that happened because they did not wait for the wine to recover. When I drank the DRC Romanée Conti 1945, the wine had a terrible smell that would have led most people to think it was dead. 

You've known Aubert de Villaine for decades. What has that friendship taught you about how the vignerons of the Côte d'Or think about their own wines?

Aubert is a man who is extremely serious and thinks carefully about everything he does. He once told me: "I try to make wines as great as my ancestors made." He believes in the power of experience, and he is very humble. I know many winemakers in Burgundy who are so proud to have climats — parcels that produce great wines. They try to do their best, and their personality plays a great role.

I first met Aubert at the French Wine Academy, and he invited me to spend a day at the Domaine de la Romanée Conti. The night before the visit I could not sleep, and in a half-sleep I imagined myself drinking a Montrachet over charcuterie. The next day, that is exactly what happened. Since then, we have met at the annual presentation of the Domaine's wines and at winegrowers' dinners, and we like to share our emotions on old wines from the estate. It was with Aubert that I drank Les Gaudichots Domaine de la Romanée Conti 1929 — an absolute rarity.

The friendship I have with Aubert is built on our shared respect for wine. We are humble when we drink. A small anecdote: I never asked Aubert for an allocation of DRC. It was Aubert who told me: "François, you must have an allocation."

Aubert's wines reflect his vision of making the greatest wines. The wines look like Aubert, just as the wines of Domaine Rousseau look like the vision of Eric Rousseau, inherited from his father. The Burgundy wines correspond to the vision of the winemakers — but their vision is given to them by the miracle of the parcels, when earth and man work together.