by Manfred Klimek
Ten years ago, young winemakers were the poster boys of a new wine world: glasses in hand, dirt under their fingernails, biodynamic, unkempt, international. They were seen as proof that wine could be young, clever and uncompromising – not weighed down by tradition, but a new beginning. Today, after almost ridiculously seeming ten years, many of them find themselves in a completely different role: as producers in a shrinking market. As entrepreneurs having fewer conversations at trade fairs. As hosts noticing how quiet the evenings have become.
Cordobar in Berlin-Mitte was the epicentre of this new wine boom: loud, wild, full of glasses, full of ideas – and full of sex. Wine was not explained there, but proclaimed. We drank what we did not know, and were delighted when it stank of oxidation from the glass. And everyone wanted to belong – restaurateurs, sommeliers, graphic designers, DJs. Around 2015, wine suddenly became as hip as gin had been before. But more genuinely artisanal and more complicated.
Today, the situation is different. Anyone opening a wine bar today is either a crank – or has a very good reason that is economically difficult to explain.
Because the market has shifted. The generation that only yesterday swore by orange wine is now ordering water with character. The sound has become quieter, the glasses smaller, the eyes and throats more cautious. Wine has slipped out of the centre – not into a niche, but out of the realm of the self-evident.
The figures speak a sober language: over the next ten years, wine sales could – in the worst-case scenario – fall by up to a third. Not because quality has declined. But because the world has changed. And wine is under particular cultural pressure. Most recently, only in the 1920s under US Prohibition.
Firstly, because of an abstinence movement that is no longer marginal, but has arrived right in the middle of society. Dry January is no longer a gimmick, but a lifestyle. No alcohol – that is considered modern, healthy and morally superior. At the same time, a young generation of Muslim consumers is growing up in Germany and Austria for whom alcohol is by definition not part of everyday life – not out of conviction, but out of habit.
The consequences are real: fewer bottles, fewer glasses, fewer impulses. And the temptation to capitulate. To do something else. On the side. Or entirely.
But that would be wrong.
Because wine’s present is not the end of its story. On the contrary: it is a return to a point that the market has long obscured – the question of relevance.
So what argues against resignation?
Firstly: The fact that those winemakers who work ecologically, artisanally and with character now have a head start. Their wines do not have to pursue mass production. They can once again, and more forcefully than ever, set quality against quantity – and thereby push weaker, overpriced competition out of the market.
Secondly: The fact that the market – as in the 1980s and before – will once again split into two extremes: industrial branded wines on the one hand and clearly defined, individually crafted wines of origin on the other. The middle? Yes: it will shrink. But space will open up at the edges – for a genuine personal signature, for authenticity.
Thirdly: The fact that wine is always more than a drink. It is a cultural asset, a symbol of context, a bearer of history. And that is precisely why it needs a new Drinking elite – however out of step with the times that may sound. Young people who do not merely drink wine, but understand it. Who do not burden it with ethics, but fill it with meaning. Now, more than ever, it needs wine ambassadors – people in hospitality, the media and culture who show that wine is not measured in percentages, but in relationships, encounters and meaning.
And: it needs winemakers who are prepared to share out this role. Who do not sell their best bottles to the quietest people, but also to those who can tell others what is inside – and why it will inevitably remain in the memory.
The future of wine is not guaranteed. But if it ushers in a new era, it will be one in which wine is explained again – not with pathos, but with conviction.
And what will a wine bar look like in 2030?
Fewer bottles, more focus. No shelf with 400 offerings, but perhaps 25 – each with a story. No wine lists on tablets, but a person who listens and recommends. No 2 cl flights, but a glass that is automatically always kept full – without explanation.
The guests? Heterogeneous. Muslim friends drinking along – grape, but without alcohol. Wine people who do not proselytise, but demonstrate. No volume, no performance – but presence.
Wine in 2030 is not less. Just less loud. Less arbitrary. And therefore: more.