Víctor de la Serna was the great one-man band of wine in Spain, in addition to leaving a legacy that touched diverse realms: a journalist to his core, co-founder of a leading Spanish newspaper, an incisive and incorruptible food critic, a devoted basketball enthusiast, and more. A man of culture, complexity, and multifaceted talent, Víctor was also my friend and mentor, which is the most important side for me and a cause of desolation and sadness since the fateful news arrived. But Víctor was a most relevant person in the radical transformation that Spain’s world of fine wine experienced over the late-20th and early-21st centuries. It would be unforgivable if, by focusing exclusively on the story of my personal experience, I missed the opportunity to make known some of his many achievements.
Víctor anticipated the transformation that the Internet would bring to wine communication worldwide and recognized the chance to transcend the provincial perspective that dominated Spain’s wine scene until the late-20th century. His linguistic prowess and cosmopolitan outlook—nurtured during his youth in Geneva and New York—were instrumental in this vision. He was the first Spaniard to earn a master’s in journalism from Columbia University, a distinction he wore proudly. With this vision, he created Elmundovino, a pioneering platform whose extensive archives remain accessible through the website of the newspaper El Mundo. Under his leadership, a team of solid experts (Asenjo, Gutiérrez, Ibáñez, Riis…) crafted a body of work that offers a reliable chronicle of Spanish wine’s evolution and appreciation over more than 20 years.
Víctor de la Serna was not a particularly patient gentleman. His thing was not to wait for others to chart the way, but rather he personally grabbed the machete and, clearing the undergrowth, opened a path where none existed before. Just as he founded a newspaper when it was needed, just as he devised and launched the most powerful website on the Internet for tasting, in-depth study, and dissemination of wine in Spain, so Víctor was also a pioneer in wine production. He ventured there at the turn of the century, establishing a winery almost from scratch. He planted Syrah vines on family land in the Manchuela region, a place with minimal tradition of fine wine before his arrival. Finca Sandoval was a realized dream that produced wines of great distinction throughout the two decades that it was under his control, at the cost of great personal and financial effort.
Knowledge, expression, and the ability to listen
Victor’s sudden passing in October 2024 came sooner than we who loved him had hoped, and somewhat later than he himself had long expected. One of the most intense memories I have of my first encounters with him was his calm conviction that he would die young, around 60, like his father and grandfather, both also named Víctor de la Serna. In this, fortunately, he was mistaken, giving us many more years to benefit from the closeness of a vehement, encyclopedic, cheerful man; a phenomenal conversationalist, who possessed the great virtues of intelligent discourse: knowledge, expression, and the ability to listen.
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I say cheerful, and it is possible that those who knew only the public facet of my friend will raise their eyebrows. It is true that he could be fiery in discussion groups and on social media, where he tended to launch dialectical blows in all directions when he felt attacked or encountered ideas he deemed nonsense. Indeed, when he got angry, he did not take care to hide it. As long as he felt strong and healthy, however, most of the time he showed himself as he really was: sensitive and attentive, good-natured and good-humored. It is often said that irony is the privilege of intelligence, but I am not so sure that this is true. What distinguishes the truly wise man is a compassionate regard for others. This was how Víctor showed himself every time I met him, even though in his public expressions he sometimes tried to appear like an ogre in a fierce fight against real or imagined adversaries.
From our first meeting, Victor always treated me with warmth and encouragement. He published every piece I sent to Elmundovino promptly, with enthusiastic support. Together with Luis Gutiérrez, we co-wrote a book on Rioja and other wine regions of northwestern Spain, a project in which he, with inconceivable humility, accepted me to serve as coordinator. He advocated for my membership of the Académie Internationale du Vin, where he himself was a leading figure for many years. He never mentioned it, but I am convinced he was also the main driving force behind in the two national gastronomy awards I have had the honor to receive. We had a bond rooted in our shared Cantabrian heritage, of which he often reminded me. When we were not talking about wine, restaurants, or basketball, Cantabria, including the traditional sport of bolo palma, was the topic. He was proud to be a direct and collateral descendant of two illustrious women from Santander: Concha Espina and María Blanchard. I am proud to be the grandson of Inda Ortiz, from Aloños, surely one of the most admirable women ever to have existed.
Basketball… I fondly recall his tales of scouting for Real Madrid, his anecdotes about Lou Carnesecca and the signing of Walter Szczerbiak, our talk about the similarities between the rings won by the Lakers in the last years of Abdul-Jabbar and by the Spurs in the final years of Tim Duncan. We exchanged stories about the Real Madrid Christmas Tournament, which I attended for several years with my coach and my teammates and where—as I told him to his amused gaze—back in 1980 I watched, scandalized, as Iturriaga wildly settled an old score with Kićanović.
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Víctor was a journalist through and through. Assistant director and head of international relations at El Mundo, for which he wrote the Style Book, he lived the profession of journalist with true passion and dedication, often neglecting his own personal interests. He contributed so many articles, columns, critiques, editorials, chronicles, reviews, that I dare not even hazard a guess as to their number; millions of words, no doubt, over the years, and surely millions of lines as well. Many were published under pseudonyms: Fernando Point, which he shared with his wife Carmen for the gastronomic critique; Vicente Salaner as his basketball alter ego. Nor did he bother to group together a selection of his press work—for two fundamental reasons, I suspect: He always had many interesting—and urgent—tasks to occupy his time, and vanity was never a priority for him. The absence of his collected works in my library is a gap that I hope will one day be filled.
Meanwhile, dear Víctor, we will continue to read you in your newspaper and toast your memory with our finest bottles, happy to remember the times we shared, grieving the loss of the fine man of wine who will be forever irreplaceable.
