(Gerhard Ziegler)
Success can sometimes make one modest. Irakli Chkhaidze is a successful man – and modest, almost excessively reserved. He does not speak like someone who wants to shine a light on his own story, but rather like someone who prefers to talk about structures, markets, taste and trends. That, too, fits with 8000 Vintages, his company, which also showcases and sells Georgian wines in Berlin: the brand must be visible. A large photographic portrait of himself? Not necessary.
Very well, then: let’s show his shop in Kreuzberg instead – and recommend popping in there in person when you get the chance. Because what is said in this conversation about Georgian wine, Europe and the shifting of entire markets finds a very concrete home in Berlin.
Irakli’s life path did not lead straight to wine. After a career in the pharmaceutical industry and an MBA in Italy – at the Bologna Business School, specialising in food and wine – this fateful yet delightful turn of events then took its course. The “8000 Vintages” project proved so successful within a very short space of time that those investors who had initially hesitated or were unwilling to come on board were no longer needed.
It becomes clear within the very first few minutes that Berlin is not merely a decorative outpost for Irakli. Berlin is a function, a tool and a political direction all in one. He utters the crucial sentence almost in passing, as if he were simply talking about delivery logistics. In reality, there is a whole strategy behind it.
“Our European hub is now Berlin.”
And immediately after that comes the second sentence, which sounds even simpler and, precisely for that reason, reveals so much. Anyone who wants not just to talk about Georgian wine, but actually to bring it into Europe, needs a real anchor point. For 8,000 Vintages, Berlin has become exactly that: not a showcase, but a hub. It is from there that deliveries are made, orders are organised, and the distance between Georgia and European customers is effectively bridged.
“We supply our EU customers directly from Berlin.”
This logistics setup is not merely a commercial footnote. It signifies a new order. Georgian wine is no longer regarded here as an exotic exception that one only comes across whilst on holiday or by chance. It becomes something that can be ordered, repeated and budgeted for. Irakli talks about delivery costs, about reach, about orders from many countries, even from Cyprus. It all sounds technical. In fact, it is a form of arrival.
He also speaks entirely unpretentiously about the scale of 8,000 Vintages. Four locations in Tbilisi, one in Batumi, one in Berlin – and behind this lies not a clamour for expansion, but a very clear geographical vision. He sums up this direction in a single sentence, which in this conversation can safely be read as a key political statement:
“At the moment, our path leads primarily to Europe.”
This is more than just the statement of a wine merchant who has discovered a new market. It is almost a statement of where modern Georgian quality wine stands as a whole. In this narrative, Europe is neither an afterthought nor merely a matter of prestige. Europe is the arena where it will be decided what sort of Georgian wine will come to the fore in future: the authentic, locally rooted, dry, characterful variety – or the style that has been produced for decades to cater to other tastes.
Before Irakli talks about exports, Russia or Europe, he describes what Georgian wine means within the country itself. In Georgia, wine is neither a marginal phenomenon nor a luxury item for a select few. It is deeply rooted in everyday life. The much-lamented ‘wine crisis’ in Europe does not affect Georgia.
“Georgians drink a great deal of wine. They love wine.” “There
used to be a great deal of home-made wine. I believe almost every family had their own wine.”
This homemade wine is not merely a drink, but a cultural practice, a family tradition and a sort of extension of domestic life. People here have gardens where vines grow, and they may also have qvevris – the clay amphorae buried in the ground. That makes wine here as much a part of everyday life as pickling olives or preserving tomatoes is elsewhere. That is precisely why the next point Irakli raises is so important: the domestic market is changing. The new generation has a different pace of life, different jobs and different time constraints.
“The new generation no longer makes their own wine. For them, bottled wine is simply much more convenient.”
What was once a matter of course in household life has gradually evolved into a professional bottled wine market. Families who for decades produced wine for themselves or their immediate circle are suddenly realising that there is a market for precisely these wines.
“When we started in 2016, there were around 50 wineries.” “Today
we work with more than 500 wineries. And around 85 per cent of them are small family-run wineries.”
We can see that the professionalisation of Georgian viticulture is not primarily driven by large, industrial operations, but by small family-run businesses. This also has a political dimension. For home wine producers are becoming entrepreneurs. Family-run businesses are emerging from the informal sector and beginning to see themselves as market players. Not all of them will survive, as Irakli also makes clear. But many are making the leap – and some of these small businesses are now among the best-selling wineries on 8000 Vintages.
It is also worth noting that he describes the barriers to entry in Georgia as relatively moderate compared with Central Europe. There is bureaucracy, of course. But, at least according to his account, it does not appear to act as the massive hindrance one might expect from traditional wine-producing countries with a dense regulatory framework.
“There is, of course, bureaucracy – but it’s not a major obstacle to setting up a business and making wine.”
This is particularly striking from an Austrian or German perspective. There, viticulture is strictly regulated both legally and administratively – historically understandable, often economically sensible, but also intimidating for small, new projects. In Georgia, there seems to be greater scope for new labels, new bottles, new experiments and new market entries. At the same time, Irakli is, of course, aware that this openness is not timeless. As Georgia moves further towards Europe, European regulations will also come into play. He puts it almost ironically, yet precisely:
“If Georgia moves towards Europe, then you also receive a gift – and that gift is the European regulations.”
There is no lament in this, rather a sober realism. Europe is a market, a source of hope, a space for quality – but also a space governed by rules. And it is precisely at this point that the conversation shifts from a purely industry-focused observation to a broader political interpretation. For if Europe is the target market, the question inevitably arises as to what will become of Russia – that market which, for decades, was the obvious, sometimes almost self-evident point of reference for many Georgian producers. Irakli answers this question with surprising candour. He begins by explaining that, within Russia itself, there is a greater focus on cheap, functional wines – in other words, products geared towards mass consumption rather than provenance or depth. The interesting small family-run wineries from Georgia, he says, are no longer on Russia’s radar.
“These small family-run wineries do not sell their wines to Russia.”
This is so important because it corrects the often oversimplified notion that the Russian market is automatically the natural market for Georgian wine. That may well have been true for part of the historical export trade. According to Irakli’s account, however, it certainly does not apply to today’s self-assured quality wines. What’s more, he explicitly points out that during the Soviet era and beyond, there were wines produced specifically for this market, but which did not represent everyday Georgian life.
“During the Soviet era, we produced wines for the Russian market. Wines that we ourselves don’t drink at all – semi-sweet wines
.” “Hardly anyone makes them anymore…”
Of course, semi-sweet wines still exist, but what was long considered a ‘Russia-compatible’ export style does not represent the heart of Georgian drinking culture. If one is to speak seriously about the country’s future as a wine-producing nation, one must take as a guide what Georgians actually drink – not what was once demanded under imperial or post-Soviet market logics.
In this line of argument, Europe is not presented as a political ideal, but as a region that is a better fit in sensory and cultural terms. Irakli emphasises that European and American consumers are looking for originality: for skin contact, for amber wine, for qvevri, for Saperavi – in short, for what is specifically Georgian. And that is precisely why he utters what is perhaps the clearest statement of the entire interview:
“The right market for Georgian wine is Europe. If you want to export to Europe, you should simply make what the Georgians themselves drink.”
This is remarkable because it rejects the old reflex to water down one’s own identity for the sake of export. It’s not about putting less of Georgia into the glass, but more. Not more accommodating, but more precise. Not internationalised in the boring sense, but recognisable in the best sense. When you listen to Irakli, you realise just how strongly certain terms have now become defining markers even outside Georgia. In the past, people in the West might have said ‘orange wine’ and meant it as a rough guide. Now, he explains, visitors to Berlin are already learning different terms.
“The first word is: kvevri.” “When
people come nowadays, they no longer say ‘amber wine’. They say: kvevri wine.” “The
second word is Saperavi.”
It’s also interesting how Irakli talks about natural wine. He doesn’t idealise the subject, even though Georgia is often perceived from the outside precisely through this lens. Instead, he describes natural winemaking as both an opportunity and a risk.
“What does natural winemaking mean? No filtration, no added yeasts, no preservatives. But if a winemaker really masters it, then these wines are magnificent.”
There is a sense of realism here too: Georgia is no longer being marketed as a mythical land where every amphora automatically produces the truth. Quality is still a matter of hard work. Natural wine is not good simply because it is minimally invasive, but only when the level of craftsmanship is high enough to bring together stability, precision and expression. Irakli does not deny that Georgia has particularly favourable conditions for this – but neither does he romanticise it.
For him, wine tourism is ultimately also part of the image of the modern Georgian wine country. Small family-run wineries, which may not yet be able to make a living solely from bottle sales, open their homes, cook, serve drinks, organise harvest experiences, and show guests the vines, cellars and kitchen. This agritourism is highly dynamic, with new projects constantly springing up and existing venues being redesigned. Anyone planning a trip should search online for new venues, checking for updates more or less on a daily basis.
Towards the end, the conversation becomes even more personal. He then explains, almost as casually as he had previously spoken about delivery charges, how his own journey into this field began.