by Claude Auguste
Sometimes I wonder, whether Germans even know what they have in wine. I write this as a South Tyrolean, as someone who stands with one foot in Italian patriotism and the other in Tyrolean-Austrian patriotism, which, admittedly, has given way to an autonomous patriotism that no longer relies on Austria. Among us, it is considered good form to drink, praise and, where necessary, defend our own wines with pleasure, pride and, yes, also a dash of local patriotism. It is similar with the Swiss: whoever lives in Valais drinks Valais wine, whoever lives by Lake Geneva drinks Chasselas. No reason for discussion – even if other wine regions may produce better wines.
And then I look towards Germany – and see a scene that is currently cultivating one thing above all: talking itself down. Where others would defiantly say: Now more than ever, people here analyse with gloomy seriousness that there is really no way out any more. As if the crisis were not bad enough already, it has to be intensified once again through the magnifying glass of a self-tormenting mentality.
Yet Germany is no arbitrary wine country. Historically speaking, it was one of the most important wine countries of all. Anyone looking at world maps of the wine trade from before 1939 encounters German Rieslings everywhere. They were the most expensive white wines in the world, valued more highly than most Bordeaux wines. In London, Petersburg and New York, bottles from the Moselle, the Rheingau and the Saar stood at the top of the lists. The famous fruity and noble-sweet Rieslings were an international cultural asset. They gave Germany lustre and prestige – even before the idea of ‘Germany as an exporting nation’ became state doctrine.
This historical greatness has been forgotten. Not by the English, not by the Scandinavians, not by the Japanese, who still treat German Rieslings like relics. It has been forgotten in Germany itself. For there, a mentality prevails that knows no cheerful patriotism. The Austrians sing their songs about Grüner Veltliner, the Italians turn their nation, their homeland, into something represented by every bottle. In Germany, by contrast, every kind of attachment to one’s homeland is immediately suspect. A reflex born of history. One understands it, and yet it is fatal for viticulture – and not only for viticulture.
For what remains, if one does not drink one’s own wine with a certain patriotic pride? Then what remains is the economic curve that turns every glass into a cost factor. What remains is the tone of resignation that one hears so often in German wine cellars at present. While the French defend their appellations like sanctuaries and the Italians use their DOCs as cultural weapons, the Germans debate whether viticulture should be saved at all.
The astonishing thing – and, as an outsider, something I can scarcely comprehend – is that this pessimism is not shared from outside. Anyone who speaks to importers in London, sommeliers in Copenhagen or collectors in Tokyo hears a different language: enthusiasm for Riesling, curiosity about Silvaner, respect for Spätburgunder. Abroad, Germany is not seen as a problem case, but as a treasure house. Only in its own country does it seem that people are convinced the treasure has long since been buried deep and is beyond recovery.
I wonder, whether that is not the real crisis: not climate change, not the far too low prices of the wines, not the structural problems – but the inability to take oneself seriously as a wine country. Patriotism in the glass is not crude nationalism. It is a commitment to one’s own soil, one’s own vines, one’s own history. Those who forbid themselves this cut off their roots before the vines even bear blossom.
From South Tyrol one looks upon this German self-denial with astonishment. We have learnt that one can only hold one’s own if one asserts oneself – against larger neighbours, against difficult markets. The Germans could do that too. They would have every reason to. They would only have to want it.