(Klimek & Auguste)
It begins with a phrase that many wine enthusiasts have forgotten how to say: ‘A glass of white wine, please.’ Not which vintage. Not which vineyard. Not which winemaker. No glance at the wine list. No discussion of ageing, acidity, yeast ageing or ratings. Just a glass of white wine. A glass of summer.
For a whole week, that’s exactly what I did in Vienna. At the same time, Claude Auguste was doing the same in Verona. We’d set out to free wine from its own significance for a few days. No tasting. No analysing. No posting. Just drinking.
The amazing thing began with the very first glass. It was good. Not great. Not spectacular. Not memorable. But good. The second one too. The third as well. In Vienna, it was mostly Grüner Veltliner or, occasionally, a Styrian Sauvignon in the glass. In Verona, Garganega, Pinot Grigio or other regional white wines took turns. None of these wines demanded attention. And that was precisely the joy of those days.
Anyone who writes about wine for a living can easily lose sight of what is taken for granted. Every bottle is analysed, categorised and rated. We talk about provenance, yields, whole-bunch fermentation, amphorae or biodynamics. At some point, wine comes to exist almost exclusively as a subject of contemplation. Yet for millennia, wine was something entirely different. Merely a drink. Nothing more. And nothing less. Just a drink.
It is the house wines and those served in pubs that tell this story best. They are scarcely discussed, rarely rated and almost never collected. Yet today they are better than ever before. Forty years ago, you could certainly get a bad deal in many pubs. Oxidised wines sold by the litre, insipid mass-produced plonk or simply sour wines were not uncommon. Today, that hardly ever happens. Technical progress in the cellar, better training for winemakers and an overall rise in quality standards have significantly raised the average. This changes wine more than many prestige cuvées ever could. For a country’s true culture is not recognised by its icons. It is recognised by what has become a matter of course. The house wine is the very essence of everyday life in a wine-producing country.
That is precisely why this week was so relaxing. Suddenly, no wine had to prove anything. No glass was an event. It wasn’t about great discoveries. Not about ratings. Not even about memories. We simply ordered another glass. A gentle buzz set in. Conversations drew out. The food took centre stage once more. The wine did exactly what wine has done for centuries: it accompanied life, rather than becoming the centre of attention itself.
For someone who writes about wine every day, that’s almost a therapeutic experience. Because at some point, you start to believe that every sip must be analysed. That every bottle must tell a story. That every tasting must yield some insight.
But it doesn’t have to.
Sometimes, a properly chilled Grüner Veltliner in a Viennese pub is enough. Or a simple white wine in a trattoria in Verona. They remind us that enjoyment doesn’t necessarily demand attention. That quality doesn’t always call for explanations. That wine works just fine even when nobody is talking about it. Wine loses none of its dignity when we leave it in peace for once. On the contrary. It regains that sense of naturalness that made it a cultural drink in the first place.
Not every bottle needs to stir up grand emotions. Not every glass requires a tasting note. Sometimes it’s enough when the landlord asks: ‘Another one?’
And you simply nod.