Since Virgil praised Falernian in his epic poem, the Aeneid, certain regions in varying nations have been revered for producing fine wines. The reasons why those places have excelled are broad, ranging from geographic factors to cultural and political influences on trade and economic opportunity. Long before Virgil, winemakers and bureaucrats in ancient Mesopotamia had begun codifying rules and regulations to preserve production practices and protect reputation and quality. Such legislation and classifications persisted through ancient Greece and the Roman Empire, which classified wines depending on production area. Subsequently, greater classifications were commonly accompanied by higher prices paid by buyers hedging their bets on reputation; historians note that Falernian may have cost at least ten times more than cheaper local wines made nearby.
When wine production became a significant industry in medieval Europe, some regions began developing more detailed regulations, particularly in France, where local authorities, trade guilds, and eventually government bureaucrats established extensive rules governing wine production and labelling. Following the ‘Leakey affair’, French winegrowers launched a petition demanding accountability from the elected bodies of France against wine fraud. In 1935, the Comité National des appellations d’origine(CNAO) was created to manage the administration of the Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée (AOC) for wines, awarding six classifications, including Arbois and Châteauneuf-du-Pape. In 1963, Italian winegrowers followed suit, founding the Denominazione di origine controllata and awarding wine from the island of Ischia in Campania protected status.
The nature of contemporary regulations is equally subject to social, cultural, and historical influences as the likelihood of a given region to produce wine at all. In France, a romantic national philosophical temperament emerging between the Renaissance and the Revolution, primarily concerned with the influence of place on identity and produce, resulted in regulations chiefly concerned with protecting and ranking geographic localities. In Italy, the nation’s fragmented history and cultural emphasis on regional and familial production techniques resulted in regulations strictly codifying the way wines are made in any given place, which is believed to be principally responsible for the character and quality of wines made in that place. In all cases, from France and Italy to Portugal, Spain, Germany, Austria, and more, regulations have dictated minutiae, from boundary lines separating premier and grand crus to where a winery must be built, planting density, fruit yield, irrigation, cryofreezing grapes, chaptalisation, whether wine must be dry or not, and élevage duration.
For all their worth—emerging rules have helped protect winemakers from fragrant fraud and adulteration—increasingly punitive and inane regulations have also propagated unreliable, inflexible and limiting hierarchies, propped up by thirsty bureaucrats and selfish beneficiaries. These same hierarchies and restrictions frequently limit winemakers, who are hampered by geographic misfortune or bound by inflexible and outdated production rules which punish creativity and limit qualitative boundaries. Similarly, protectionist measures induce infighting, encouraging producers to protest changes which might harm their own privileged status. Sadly, resultant hierarchies are reified in education, forging expectations and setting price ceilings with buyers, which in turn incentivises industrial production practices and maintains poor wine quality in ‘lesser’ appellations—why bother toiling by hand for a mere Mâconnais?
Beginning in the late 1960s, winemakers began rebelling against such regulations, including ditching prestigious appellations for table wine denominations and fighting lengthy and expensive legal battles after breaking appellation rules.
In 1942, inspired by the great wines of Bordeaux, Marchese Mario Incisa della Rocchetta planted cabernet sauvignon and cabernet franc at Tenuta San Guido in Bolgheri. In 1968, Mario Incisa and oenologist Giacomo Tachis bottled the first Sassicaia vintage intended for public consumption. Until 1993, Sassicaia was bottled simply as Vino da Tavola di Toscana due to an absence of sangiovese or any local white grapes. Ten years later, at a Decanter Magazine blind tasting competition, the 1972 Sassicaia beat 33 wines from 11 countries to win its first international award. Later, Robert Parker famously awarded the 1985 vintage 100 points, the first time the score had been awarded to an Italian wine. Sassicaia was followed by further successes, Tignanello, Solaia, and Ornellaia, all received similar critical acclaim. However, the ‘Super Tuscans’ all fell short of strict appellation rules. Subsequently, the wines enjoyed great fame, whilst the Chianti DOC went overlooked by new drinkers.
In 1981, following similar frustrations with DOC regulations—particularly the requirement for wines labelled Chianti Classico to include 10% local white grapes like trebbiano—Sergio Manetti withdrew his Montevertine wines from the Chianti Classico Consorzio, including the flagship Le Pergole Torte, which Manetti had created specifically to reinvigorate the region’s traditional grape varieties. Consequently, his wines were instead labelled Vino da Tavola, and later Toscana IGT. Even after regulations changed in the 1990s, allowing 100% sangiovese wines within the DOCG, Montevertine remained outside the appellation, continuing to label the wines without reference to the Chianti zone.
In 1993, the Les Baux-de-Provence AOC changed its rules, dictating that red wines from the area could no longer include cabernet sauvignon as a major component, despite the variety being planted in the area for over a century. Two decades prior, architect-turned-winemaker Éloi Dürrbach founded Domaine Trévallon, bottling his first vintage in 1976, a red blend of cabernet sauvignon and syrah. Following the change, Dürrbach declassified his wine, opting to label simply as IGP Alpilles (formerly Vin de Pays des Bouches-du-Rhône), citing a desire to make wine that expressed his specific site and vision, and not to follow arbitrary formulae. Despite the declassification, Trévallon became one of the most sought-after and age-worthy wines of Provence.
Later that decade, trailblazing winemaker Angelo Gaja, who revolutionised both his family business and regional winegrowing, declassified his famed Barbaresco and Barolo (besides two cuvees) to the lesser classification Langhe DOC following a quarrel regarding a small addition of barbera—prohibited by the DOCG—to improve the balance and acidity of the wines. Ironically, Gaja argued that before the appellation rules, blending grapes like barbera was commonplace in some vintages, especially when nebbiolo did not fully ripen, claiming his blending decision was respectful of historic local practices in adjusting for climatic or vineyard variability.
And finally, following protracted disagreements with local bureaucrats, Gianfranco Soldera publicly announced he was leaving the Consorzio in March 2013, opting to label his wines under the general Toscana IGT designation. Whilst preceding protagonists had protested the rigidity and incongruence of their respective appellations, Soldera accused his of relaxing standards and abandoning authentic wine, going as far as to accuse the Consorzio of fraud after they offered him wine from other producers after an ex-employee sabotaged his production.
More recently, famed Château Lafleur shocked winedom by abandoning the Pomerol appellation, citing the need to tackle climate change (most notably, drought pressure) with ‘precision and efficiency’. More precisely, Lafleur wants to plant less densely; utilise soil-cover techniques; reduce canopy height; adopt temporary or permanent canopy shading; and, perhaps most controversially, begin irrigating. But savvy readers will know that whilst this is surely the most high-profile abandonment in recent times, smaller skirmishes, desertions, and rejections abound in fine wine more broadly.
In 2018, Benjamin Dagueneau pulled his family domaine out of the Pouilly-Fumé appellation following protracted disagreements, culminating with the appellation management body (ODG) rejecting Benjamin’s 2017 wines on grounds of them purportedly being ‘acescent’— Dagueneau suspects the real reason is the atypicity of his methods and wines. In Anjou, home to many exalted producers, growers are abandoning the Quarts de Chaume (grand cru) appellation on account of its managing body refusing to admit dry wines despite marked shift in consumer preferences, thus risking the region’s most famous vineyard fading into obscurity as producers with significant holdings (Surronde, Belargus, Plaisance) opt to bottle dry wines often labelled simply as Anjou AOC. In Barolo, Tom Myers, arguably one of today’s finest young winemakers, recently announced he will drop the Barolo DOCG from his Preda label from 2022, citing a conflict between the DOCG barrel-ageing requirements and his own vision, opting instead to prioritise maximum flexibility to adapt winemaking processes. Thus, future wines will be bottled simply as Vino Rosso, returning the MGA to relative obscurity. In Burgundy, young popular winegrower Théo Dancer opted to bottle wines produced at his 10-hectare Roc Breïa estate as Vin de France, foregoing the Mâconnais label entirely. Finally, in 2021, both Châteaux Cheval Blanc and Ausone announced their intention to withdraw from the Saint-Émilion classification.
There are almost a thousand appellations in France and Italy, plus many more in Spain, Portugal, Austria, etc., the majority of which are inconsequential to most wine drinkers, despite the best efforts of ambitious public relations firms. And, whilst there are benefits to membership in even the most obscure appellations—spots at trade fairs, presence at regional tastings, eligibility for tenders, and so on—only a handful offer significant price augmentation based on desirability among buyers. Concerningly, it is in precisely those appellations where today’s battles take place, and where many promising producers are increasingly going it alone, leaving regional bodies behind as they establish themselves independently with savvy importers and new drinkers.
In past decades, these exclusive appellations were safe, reliable havens for enthusiasts seeking out quality wine. However, today’s rich and expansive information economy has democratised access, offering drinkers and producers alike a growing array of outlets from which to connect. And, despite predictions of a homogenising effect from globalisation, in today’s market it is the most singular and characterful wines from all corners which receive the greatest fanfare. Much more than any appellation label, the capacity of this dynamic ecosystem to increase fame and fortune is unbound; a single publication can swiftly elevate any grower to superstardom, from unknown producers labouring in obscurity in familiar appellations to cult growers in fledgling regions and breakthrough winemakers worldwide. Subsequently, buyers are increasingly willing to pay astronomical prices for wines with no prior renown, let alone a recognisable appellation.
Paradoxically, what began as a means for maintaining standards now ostracises those producers most commonly producing the finest wines, limits means of adapting to climate change, and in some cases risks the preservation of place itself. In such a world, the appellation risks becoming a vestige of fine wine culture, a redundant artefact no more likely to signal high quality than reveal dreary plonk. If they are to survive as more than sprawl for certified sommelier’s flash card fetishes, appellations must reform, reconceiving themselves as places where great wine is made, not ways of making wine at the expense of ascension.
