I’ve been avoiding this newsletter. Not for lack of stories, but because the past eight weeks gave me too many—moments that resisted easy summary, experiences that needed time to settle before they made sense on the page.

Which feels fitting, as that’s what travel teaches you: some things can’t be rushed, even when you want to get them down in words. Between celebrations, work trips, and too many airport coffees, I lost the rhythm that writing requires. But maybe the silence was necessary. Maybe I needed to slow down enough to understand what I was trying to say.

Italy reminded me—or taught me again, because apparently I need this lesson on repeat—that patience produces quality, the best things unfold at their own pace, and efficiency isn’t the only measure of a life well-lived.

We landed in Nice on a sultry late-summer evening in early September. The kind of heat that clings to your skin even after the sun drops below the horizon. Despite more than 22 hours of travel, we felt energized by what lay ahead. First stop: Alassio, a small town tucked into the Ligurian coast that most people have never heard of. This was intentional. We could have chased the Instagram-famous coastlines—Amalfi’s cliffs, Portofino’s pastel harbor crowded with yachts and selfie sticks—but instead we chose to slow down, to see what happens when you stop chasing the obvious and let a place reveal itself on its own terms.

Villa della Pergola became our base—a 19th-century estate perched above the Mediterranean, its botanical gardens seemingly untouched by time. Mornings unfolded slowly: coffee on the terrace overlooking the sea, the distant sound of church bells marking hours that didn’t feel urgent. Days slipped by beside the infinity pool, the horizon blurring the line between water and sky.

Liguria does this to you. The geography itself enforces slowness—vineyards carved into impossible terraces where machines can’t reach, where every bottle represents someone’s stubborn refusal to farm easier ground. The region is a sliver of coastline squeezed between mountains and sea, and everything about it feels hand-scaled, human-paced.

One afternoon, we opened a bottle of Rosedelmare 2023 from La Ginestraia—a rosato made from Rossese, Liguria’s signature red grape that exists in relative obscurity outside these hills. Pale and perfumed, it shared more with Burgundian elegance than the muscular reds of neighboring Piedmont. Red berries and Mediterranean herbs, yes, but what struck me most was that unmistakable saline edge—as if the sea breeze had been captured and bottled. Rossese, like Liguria itself, refuses to shout. It’s light in body but dense with character, shaped by maritime winds that other regions can only dream of. Very little of it leaves these hills, which is precisely what makes it worth seeking out. Some wines don’t exist to conquer export markets but to capture moments—and this rosato understood the assignment.

We took a day trip to Cervo, a medieval village clinging to the coast where music fills the narrow streets. Violins from open windows, a cello practicing somewhere above, piano scales drifting from a doorway—musicians preparing for the summer concert series that’s been a tradition here for decades. It felt like stumbling onto a film set, except nothing was staged. This was just life in Cervo, where classical music is as natural as waves against stone.

Places like this recalibrate your internal clock. The urgency that feels essential back home—the packed calendars, the optimization of every hour—suddenly seems absurd in a place where people have been making wine the same way for generations, where concert series have run uninterrupted for fifty years, where life follows seasons and tides rather than notifications and deadlines.

After three days in Alassio, we needed to get to Como relatively quickly. But I couldn’t resist a detour through Piedmont. The drive from the coast to the Langhe is a study in contrast: Liguria’s vertical drama gives way to gentle undulations, hills rolling like ocean swells frozen mid-motion, each crowned with a village or castle, the valleys thick with hazelnuts and vine rows that trace the land’s natural contours.

We stopped at Paitin in Barbaresco, a family-run estate farming these slopes since 1796. There, we met Luca Elia, whose family has tended these vines since the beginning. There’s a quality to multi-generational wineries you can’t fake—a depth that comes only from watching the same hillside through centuries of weather and change. Luca moves through his vineyards with the ease of someone who knows every vine personally—who can tell you which parcels ripen first, which struggle in wet years, which produce the most elegant wines. His family has been exporting Barbaresco since 1898, building a legacy one vintage at a time.

We tasted in a cellar that smelled of old wood and earth. These are not wines for the impatient. Nebbiolo demands time. Italy’s great lesson, in a glass.

Luca told us about their organic farming—fully certified since 2019, though practiced long before the paperwork. He mentioned biodynamic techniques too, not as marketing but as continuity. Following natural cycles, maintaining biodiversity, treating the vineyard as a living system rather than a production facility.

Modern efficiency could yield more wine, he said, but it couldn’t produce better wine.

Standing in those vineyards, looking out over the patchwork of family plots that define Barbaresco, I understood why Italy keeps pulling people back. These places remember what we keep forgetting: that quality requires time, craft resists shortcuts, and the best things unfold whether we’re ready or not.

The next day, Como appeared through morning mist like something from a dream, the lake so still it mirrored the mountains perfectly. We’d arrived for the final leg before the wedding, and I’d been looking forward to this—Como has a particular elegance, the kind that whispers rather than shouts.

That evening, a friend’s recommendation led us to the kind of restaurant where the wine list is a book and the sommelier knows every bottle by heart. I ordered a bottle of skin-contact Pinot Grigio from Trentino that most Americans have never heard of because they’re too busy ordering Super Tuscans or, if adventurous, Barolo.

The sommelier’s face lit up. “You know wine,” he said—not a question but a statement. What followed was one of those serendipitous evenings you can’t plan.

After generously offering to share some surprise pours with us, he disappeared into the cellar, returning with a covered bottle, condensation clinging to the glass. “For you to taste.”

The wine poured pale gold with a faint petrol shimmer. On the nose, honeyed stone fruit, beeswax, and that kerosene note that signals age. On the palate, it was electric—vibrant after all these years, acid slicing through layers of fruit, nuts, and dried flowers. The finish went on and on.

“1985 Benedict Loosen-Erben Ürziger Würzgarten Riesling Spätlese,” he finally revealed.

Forty years. Older than I am. Still alive, still vibrant—proof that time isn’t always the enemy.

He poured another: a 2021 Lou Dumont Bourgogne Passe-tout-grains, a blend of Pinot Noir and Gamay that most Burgundy snobs dismiss. Pure pleasure—bright fruit, earthy undertones, the kind of wine that makes you forget prestige and just enjoy the moment. Again, he let us taste before revealing. It wasn’t a test; it was a gift.

Then: “Come,” he said. “I want to show you something else.” Down into the cellar we went—a cavern lined with bottles from every corner of the wine world. We talked vintages, debated Italian wine’s future, ate warm panettone from the chef while the sommelier proudly showed us the collection he built over the years.

You can’t schedule a moment like that. You can’t optimize your way into a sommelier deciding to open a forty-year-old Riesling for strangers, can’t engineer midnight panettone in a cellar. These things happen only when you make space for them—when you’re open to where the evening wants to go rather than where you planned for it to end.

We stayed in Como two more days, moving at a pace that would’ve felt indulgent back home but here seemed natural: long breakfasts overlooking the lake, afternoon walks through gardens tended for centuries, evenings without clocks.

Italy does this. It insists on slowness not through rules but by example—showing that another rhythm is possible, that efficiency isn’t the only measure of a life well-lived. The wine helps, of course. It’s hard to rush a forty-year-old Riesling or a Barbaresco that took a decade to peak. These wines demand attention, reward patience, invite contemplation.

I realize now why the newsletter went quiet for two months. I’d been moving at a pace that left no room for reflection, optimizing my days until I’d lost touch with the very things I started writing about—the unoptimizable pleasures, the moments that matter precisely because they can’t be rushed.

Italy reminded me. Or maybe it gave me permission to remember: some things are worth doing slowly, patience produces quality, and the best experiences can’t be scheduled.

Thank you for still being here—for not unsubscribing during the silence, for giving me space to disappear and return, for understanding that sometimes the best way forward is to slow down first.

More soon. And this time, I mean it.
— Nick

Armani just shot their latest campaign on VHS. Not some cutting-edge camera capable of capturing every minuscule detail in 8K, but an old VHS camcorder—the kind my dad used to fumble with at birthday parties, its red recording light steady and patient. The footage stutters and bleeds, colors washing into each other like watercolors in rain. Deliberately imperfect, and all the more beautiful for it.

It’s tempting to dismiss this as nostalgia bait, another calculated play for Gen Z’s affection. But I think it signals something deeper. While we choke on what everyone has started calling “AI slop”—that uncannily smooth, technically flawless yet soulless content flooding every corner of the internet—there’s a countercurrent forming. We’re developing an appetite for the unpolished, the handmade, things that bear the slight tremor of human uncertainty.

This hunger shows up everywhere once you start looking. Vinyl records are outselling CDs again, complete with their pops and crackles. Restaurants are ditching precision plating for rustic presentation. People scroll past algorithmic perfection to linger on something raw, something that feels touched by human hands. The more machine-generated content fills our lives, the more we crave authenticity, even if it comes with rough edges.

Wine understands this tension better than most industries, probably because it’s been wrestling with the balance between technology and tradition for centuries. At its core, wine remains stubbornly analog in a digital world. It’s a slow craft in an instant age—a full year in the vineyard for one chance at harvest, fermentation that follows its own mysterious timeline, bottles that need decades to reveal their secrets. You cannot prompt terroir into existence. You cannot shortcut the patience required to make something transcendent. The more frantically we try to capture what makes wine special, the more it slips through our fingers—like trying to grasp water or pin down the essence of a perfect sunset.

Sure, technology has crept into winemaking. Designer yeasts promise consistent flavors, reverse osmosis can strip away unwanted elements, spinning cones can adjust alcohol levels with surgical precision. These tools exist to sand down rough edges, eliminate variables, create products that perform reliably in blind tastings and score predictably with critics. The resulting wines often achieve technical excellence. Balanced, clean, faultless. They’re also frequently forgettable.

The wines that inhabit our dreams, the ones that stop conversation mid-sentence, usually carry some mark of their origins. They might have a streak of wildness from native yeasts, a mineral backbone that speaks of specific soils or even what textbook winemaking would consider flaws. Volatile acidity, reduction. These scars somehow make them more compelling rather than less.

The wines I speak of are not optimized products designed to appeal to the broadest possible audience. They’re expressions of particular places filtered through human decisions that often defy pure logic: the winemaker who harvests earlier than the numbers suggest because something in the light tells her it’s time, the grower who continues farming an impossibly steep vineyard because four generations of his family worked that same soil, the producer who refuses to add acid or enzymes because he’d rather let each vintage speak with its own voice.

This approach becomes more valuable, not less, as AI reshapes how we think about expertise. I keep hearing predictions that AI will replace sommeliers, that machines capable of analyzing thousands of flavor compounds and cross-referencing decades of vintage data will make human palates obsolete. The logic seems sound: why trust fallible human senses when an algorithm can process more information in seconds than a sommelier learns over years of study?

But this misses the point entirely. An algorithm can tell you that a wine contains notes of blackcurrant and cedar, that it scored 92 points from a major critic, that it pairs beautifully with roasted chicken. What it cannot capture is why that specific bottle, opened on a particular Tuesday evening with someone you care about, creates a memory that lingers long after the last drop is gone. It cannot explain the ineffable quality that makes certain wines not just beverages but experiences, not just products but stories.

The rise of AI is actually clarifying what we value most in wine and, by extension, in culture itself. When machines can generate technically perfect content at the speed of light, scarcity shifts to the irreplaceably human. Authenticity becomes the ultimate luxury good. The public seems to understand this instinctively. Natural wine seems to be one of the few segments in the industry that is still growing, small producers making just a few hundred cases of distinctive bottles are developing cult followings, wine bars celebrate the weird and wonderful over the polished and predictable.

People want stories, not algorithms. They want the vinous equivalent of that VHS grain—proof that human hands and human choices shaped what they’re experiencing.

By showing us what perfect optimization looks like, AI has inadvertently reminded us why we never really wanted it. The paradox is complete: in pursuing flawlessness, we discover our love for flaws. In forcing everything toward algorithmic efficiency, it has made the beautifully inefficient more precious. The craft revival we’re witnessing isn’t a rejection of technology but a celebration of everything technology cannot replicate or replace.

Wine has always known that magic happens in the margins, in the spaces between what can be measured and what can be felt. The way morning fog moves differently through each vineyard block, the split-second decisions made during fermentation, the recognition that sometimes the most memorable wines shouldn’t exist at all according to rational winemaking principles—yet somehow they transcend logic to achieve something close to art.

This is what terroir really means, and why no algorithm will ever truly understand it. Terroir isn’t just soil composition and climate data; it’s the accumulated choices of people who’ve decided that place matters more than efficiency, that character matters more than consistency, that some things are worth preserving precisely because they resist optimization.

So while AI continues reshaping culture, flooding our feeds with frictionless content designed to engage without challenging, wine offers a different model. It suggests that the future belongs not to the optimized but to the exceptional, not to what satisfies algorithms but to what satisfies something deeper in human experience. In a world increasingly dominated by artificial intelligence, wine remains beautifully, stubbornly, irreplaceably human.

What’s in My Glass

Cucamonga Revolution 2023 Palomino (Scythian Wine Co.)

This tension between optimization and authenticity isn’t abstract for me. In fact, it’s sitting in my glass right now.

Growing up in the Mojave Desert, I knew Rancho Cucamonga as a place of strip malls and chain restaurants, hardly somewhere you'd expect to find serious winemaking. If you'd told me ten years ago that I'd one day be savoring a wine from there, let alone writing about it, I would have laughed in your face. Cucamonga and wine? Like claiming Las Vegas made great coffee. But here I am, glass in hand, confronting my own assumptions about home.

This bottle tells a story that rewrites California wine history. Before Prohibition strangled the industry, Los Angeles was the beating heart of California winemaking, producing wines from varieties like Palomino and Mission that thrived on sandy soils. The Lopez Vineyard, where these grapes grew, was planted in 1912—vines that have survived over a century without a single application of pesticides, fungicides, or even sulfur. 111 years of pure survival, sandwiched now between warehouses and highways, producing barely a kilogram of fruit per plant.

Palomino is typically dismissed as the workhorse grape of sherry production—neutral, unremarkable on its own, supposedly requiring the oxidative aging and fortification of Jerez to become interesting. Most wine professionals would tell you it makes bland table wine at best. But Raj Parr, the sommelier-turned-vigneron, saw something others missed in these ancient, neglected vines. He found these relics and recognized possibility where others saw problems. Vines so old they’d been left unpruned for years, yields so low they defied commercial logic, fruit from a grape variety no reasonable person would flag as promising material. Yet from these stubborn survivors and his skilled winemaking comes something that proves conventional wisdom wrong.

The wine pours pale gold with a slight haze—unfiltered, naturally cloudy, the way wine looked before modern technology cleaned up every imperfection. On the nose, there’s green apple and wet stone, hints of citrus peel and dried herbs. The palate is bone dry but not austere, with a weight and texture that comes from those ancient vines’ deep roots, finishing with a mineral persistence that makes you want to return to the glass immediately.

What strikes me most is how much this wine tastes like somewhere specific—not just Southern California, but this exact patch of sandy granite soil that has somehow resisted development and time. There’s a dusty minerality that speaks of hot summers and winter rains, a brightness that cuts through heat, a character that could only come from vines old enough to have their own memories.

Parr didn’t rescue these vineyards because market research suggested demand for Cucamonga Palomino. He did it because he recognized something precious that was about to disappear forever—that’s exactly the kind of beautiful contrarianism that emerges when curiosity overrules conventional wisdom.

Sometimes the most profound discoveries happen in your own backyard, in places you thought you knew too well to hold surprises. Sometimes home reveals itself differently when you’ve traveled far enough to see it fresh. This bottle is both a wine and a reminder that the most unlikely places might be hiding the most extraordinary stories.

Table Talk

Here in the U.S., Labor Day weekend arrived like a gentle reminder that summer fades gradually, then all at once. I spent those three days clinging to the season’s last gifts, setting up camp on patios and porches, chasing every excuse to eat outdoors while the air still held warmth without weight.

There’s something almost desperate about late summer dining, the way we gather these moments with cupped hands, knowing they’ll slip through our fingers soon enough. The stone fruit at the farmers market has reached that perfect point of ripeness where peaches and nectarines yield to the slightest pressure, their juice threatening to run down your chin at first bite. Tomatoes arrive heavy with sunshine, their skins tight and glossy, demanding nothing more than coarse salt and good olive oil to reveal their essence.

These are the ingredients that exist only in their moment of perfection. They are what they are for such a brief window, and then they’re gone—another reminder that the most meaningful things resist optimization, refuse to be improved upon or extended beyond their natural rhythms.

I find myself cooking less and arranging more during these final summer weeks—slicing tomatoes thick and laying them on wooden boards, tearing feta with my hands, drizzling everything with the kind of olive oil that costs too much but tastes like liquid gold. Simple compositions that celebrate the ingredients rather than transform them. Food that tastes like time and place, like the particular alchemy of soil and sun that created these flavors.

The light during these dinners has a different quality too, golden and slanted, casting everything in soft focus. Conversations stretch longer when you’re eating outdoors, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the distant hum of evening settling in. There’s no rushing when you’re dining al fresco—the meal becomes less about feeding hunger and more about marking time, celebrating the fleeting nature of perfect weather.

Next week, I’ll be in Europe, chasing summer across continents before it slips away entirely. Following the season wherever it lingers, seeking out those last balmy evenings on terraces on the Italian Riviera or sidewalk cafés in Provence. The Europeans understand this ritual better than we do stateside, this sacred pause between day and night where food and wine and conversation blend into something approaching transcendence.

But for now, here in Napa, I’m still holding summer hostage in my backyard. Still slicing tomatoes and opening bottles that deserve the open air. Still believing that if I eat enough peaches, drink enough rosé under the stars, I can somehow make the season last just a little bit longer.

Summer’s end isn’t a date on the calendar—it simply stops being summer, the way a wave doesn’t announce its arrival at the shore. Until then, the table stays set outside, the wine stays chilled and the last of the season’s bounty gets its proper tribute. In a world pushing toward algorithmic efficiency, these unoptimizable moments—the perfect tomato, the wine that tastes like nowhere else, the evening that unfolds at exactly the pace it needs—might matter most of all.

Here’s to craft over algorithms, stories over data points and everything that remains beautifully, stubbornly human.

— Nick

There’s a particular cruelty to summer in wine country. Everyone tells you to slow down, to savor, to let the long days stretch like honey from a spoon. But sometimes—most times, if I’m being honest—summer has other plans. Sometimes it grabs you by the collar and drags you through a season of such intensity that by August you’re left wondering if you actually lived through it or if it lived through you.

This summer was supposed to be about settling in. Finding my rhythm in Napa. Learning to breathe a little easier after yet another cross-country move. Instead, it became something else entirely: a masterclass in discovery disguised as ordinary life. A reminder that the best summers aren’t always the most restful ones.

When you last heard from me, I was musing about an upcoming induction into middle age. It was fortunately inaugurated with Krug at golden hour, followed by a meticulous display of fine-dining precision unfolding throughout the evening like a meditation on perfection—a perfectly choreographed dance of food and wine. I then hopped on a plane to Warsaw—a city I never expected to love—which pulled me into its electric energy, where young creatives from across Eastern Europe are building something vibrant and alive.

A weekend in Lisbon brought me back to one of those friendships that leaves you feeling like you’re on the edge of something great, the kind of person who makes your own ambitions feel not just possible but inevitable. And threading through it all, the weight of my WSET Diploma studies—ninety minutes of essay questions that left me staring at a blank page, wondering if I actually knew anything about wine at all.

By the time August rolled around, I was exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. The kind of tired that comes not from doing too little, but from doing too much of exactly what you love.

This is what I've learned about summer: it amplifies whatever restlessness already lives in you. The long days that are supposed to invite leisure instead stretch out like an invitation to fill them. I’ve never been good at sitting still, at letting time pass without trying to make something of it. Summer, with all its promise of slowness, somehow makes that restlessness worse. Maybe it’s the light that lingers past nine o’clock, or the way possibility seems to hang in the warm air like pollen. Maybe it’s knowing that somewhere, grapes are slowly ripening toward harvest, that every sunset brings us closer to crush—time moving forward whether we’re ready or not. Either way, I’m learning that fighting it might be missing the point entirely.

What’s in My Glass

Reia Brda Malavazija 2019 - Slovenia

Let me tell you about falling in love at first sip.

I was in Warsaw for work, but the city caught me completely off guard. It felt alive in a way I hadn’t expected, buzzing with young creatives, many of them young transplants from across Eastern Europe who've brought their energy and talent to a city that seems ready to embrace anything. The food scene was incredible, the shops were cooler than anything I could ever hope to see in the likes of Napa Valley, and everywhere you looked, there was this sense of possibility.

I was sitting in a wine bar that looked as if it belonged in one of the more fashionable arrondissements of Paris, when the sommelier recommended this bottle. Slovenia was barely a blip on my wine radar—but something about the way he described it made me curious.

The first bottle was corked—that unmistakable musty, wet cardboard smell that comes from TCA contamination. These things happen. But the replacement bottle that arrived fifteen minutes later was nothing short of revelatory. Orange wine done right: all the textural intrigue of skin contact without the funky barnyard notes that can turn people off the style. There was honeyed stone fruit on the nose, a saline minerality that spoke of limestone soils, and a finish that seemed to go on forever.

I bought a bottle to bring home, of course. It’s sitting in my wine fridge now, waiting for the right moment, the right meal, the right company to share it with. Because some wines are too good to drink alone.

World of Wine

What caught my eye this summer:

🐛 Phylloxera’s New Frontier: After more than a century of isolation, the devastating root louse has been detected in the Canary Islands for the first time. It’s a sobering reminder that no wine region is truly safe from this microscopic menace. → Decanter

❄️ Chilled Red Revolution: This summer’s most refreshing discovery? Red wine served cold. It sounds counterintuitive until you try a chilled Beaujolais on a 90-degree day or discover how a light Pinot Noir transforms when it hits the ice bucket. The rules about serving temperature are getting a summer makeover, and I’m here for it. → Wine Enthusiast

🇺🇸 Tariff Reality Check: Trump’s new tariffs went into effect on August 1st, hitting more than 90 countries, including major wine producers. European Union wines now face a 15% import tax—a 50% increase from the previous 10% levy. I wrote back in April about why tariffs on wine were a terrible idea, and now we’re seeing the impact firsthand. Your Saturday Sancerre and celebratory Champagne just got significantly more expensive. Even domestic producers are feeling the squeeze as French barrels and Portuguese corks cost more. → NY Times

Table Talk

Singularity in Sonoma

Few things humble you quite like sitting down to a meal that represents someone’s life’s work. At SingleThread in Healdsburg, that someone is Kyle Connaughton, and the work is nothing short of artistry. Eleven courses, each one paired with a wine that didn’t just complement the dish but completed it.

The Caroline Morey Beaune Premier Cru Les Grèves 2021 alongside the duck course was a study in harmony—earthy, elegant Pinot Noir that knew exactly when to step forward and when to fade into the background. The 2021 Domaine Brun Avril Châteauneuf-du-Pape Blanc with the Black Cod was a revelation: proof that the southern Rhône can produce whites with the same intensity and complexity as its famous reds.

And then there was the dessert wine: a 2015 magnum of Château d’Yquem. Some bottles are legends for a reason. The way it paired with that final sweet course—I'm still thinking about it weeks later.

The hospitality was as Japanese as the cuisine: precise, thoughtful, warm in a way that feels both formal and deeply personal. It’s the kind of meal that changes your baseline for what’s possible in a restaurant. The kind of experience that makes you want to plan your next visit before you’ve even finished the first.

Off the Vine

A few other things that made summer taste better:

📚 Travel Reading: My colleague in Warsaw—who happens to own one of the coolest bars in town, GiGi—gifted me a bottle of Polish Chardonnay from Winnica Turnau that I can’t wait to try. But the real discovery was Pascaline Lepeltier’s One Thousand Vines, a deeply personal and comprehensive masterpiece that I’ll be revisiting for years to come. Her perspective on natural wine and terroir has been reshaping how I think about what makes a wine authentic.

🍷 Community Kindness: Sometimes the wine world surprises you with its generosity. A few weeks ago, I got a text from my local wine shop owner: “I have some sample bottles from producers if you’re interested in training your palate.” I expected maybe a couple of Coravin vials. She handed me a case-and-a half of full bottles. American producers across the board—Napa Valley icons alongside up-and-coming Oregon winemakers experimenting with Clairette and Picpoul. It was a reminder that the Napa community takes care of its own, especially those of us still learning.

All of this got me thinking about how we discover wine. In Warsaw, it was a sommelier’s passionate recommendation that led me to Slovenia. In Lisbon, it was wandering into dusty wine shops and trusting my instincts. At SingleThread, it was surrendering to someone else’s expertise and letting them guide the experience. At home, it’s a shop owner who knows my journey and surprises me with 18 bottles of possibility.

Each discovery had a story, a human connection, a moment of serendipity that no algorithm could replicate. What if there was a way to capture that magic? That personal touch? I’ve been exploring some ideas around this—more on that soon.

But for now, I’m content to let summer settle into memory. To finally slow down long enough to taste that Slovenian orange wine. To plan my next visit to SingleThread—maybe in winter, when the menu will tell a completely different story.

Here’s to summers that surprise you, wines that transport you, and communities that support you. Sometimes the art of living well isn’t about balance. Sometimes it’s about diving headfirst into everything that makes you feel alive.

Thanks for sticking around. More soon.

— Nick

The Dog Days of Summer are officially here, and depending on where you are in the world, you might be basking in the sun by day and slipping into balmy, open-window nights. Here in Napa, the hills have shifted from bright spring green to the scorched gold of midsummer. The vineyards—neat rows tattooed into the valley floor—catch the late afternoon light like velvet. Between the redwoods and the oaks, the land hums. Dust hangs in the air like pollen. The world feels suspended. I’m forever a summer child.

It’s my birthday this week. Tomorrow, in fact. I’ll be turning 35.

There’s something strange I’ve come to realize over the years: no matter your age, there’s always someone who thinks you’re too young to understand and someone else who assumes you should’ve figured it all out by now. But birthdays, at least in my case, aren’t about measuring progress. They’re about pausing. Looking back just long enough to ask: What mattered? What stayed? What changed me, even just a little?

This past year passed quickly—almost cruelly so. I remember my grandfather once saying that time doesn’t just move faster as you get older; it collapses. A year becomes a month, a month a week. You wake up and your hair is different, the wine you were saving has aged, the garden you neglected is suddenly overrun with zucchini. There have been health scares. Moments of joy. Good news. Bad. A thousand tiny griefs and a few rare, crystalline highs. How do you distill all of that into a single birthday post? I’m still working on it. I’ll let you know if I ever figure it out.

There’s a sweet irony to being born on the Fourth of July. As a kid, it made me feel important. As an adult, it’s complicated. The fireworks now feel a little too loud, a little too performative—especially in a world that often feels like it’s unraveling. Some call it the metacrisis. Others call it late capitalism. Whatever name you give it, there’s a collective unease in the air. And still—despite everything—we gather. We celebrate. Not blindly, but stubbornly. Maybe even tenderly. Because life, as chaotic as it gets, still gives us reasons to light a candle and pour a glass.

And that’s what I’ve done this week. I took time off from the day job and built a few days around the rituals I love most: food, wine, long conversations, late mornings. Last night, I inaugurated the grill with spicy ribs and warm potato salad. A bottle of cool-climate Grenache, opened too early but all the better for it. I sat outside until the sky turned lavender and the stars blinked on, one by one. Someone put on music. We poured another glass. We said less and less as the night wore on—not out of silence, but contentment.

I’ve come to believe that a life lived through wine is really a life lived through attention. Noticing what’s in the glass, yes—but also the hands that poured it. The way a tomato tastes different when someone you love is sitting across from you. The way laughter sounds when it’s earned. This little corner of the internet is my attempt to trace that life. And if you’re reading this, you’re part of that story now.

What’s in My Glass?

2021 Frederick Stevenson “Hongell Vineyard” Grenache

A couple of weeks ago, I had the chance to participate in an expanded tasting of Australian wines thanks to Mark Davidson of Wine Australia. We tasted through a lineup of more than ten bottles spanning style, and region. There’s a particular kind of electricity in a room full of wine lovers when something surprises you, and this bottle did just that.

I’ve really been enjoying Grenache as of late, and this felt like the perfect pairing to accompany last night’s barbecue. The Barossa Valley is typically known for its warm-weather fruit bombs, but this is the exact opposite. It’s bright, elegant, and made from old-vine fruit. Don’t sleep on Grenache this summer.

What struck me most about the Stevenson wasn’t just the clarity of the red fruit or the lift of its acidity—it was the texture. Silken but structured, like the way linen moves in a breeze. There’s a wildness to it too, a note of dried herbs and cracked pepper that feels more Rhône than Barossa. 

It’s the kind of bottle you open at golden hour and realize, halfway through the second glass, that you’ve slowed down. That time has taken on a different shape. And on a birthday week in the heart of summer, that felt just right.

World of Wine

What caught my eye this week.

👸🏽 Duchess of Rosé: Meghan Markle’s new Napa Valley rosé sold out in hours—proof that royal branding still packs a punch. → The Guardian

🍷 Italian Revival: Once sidelined, California’s Sangiovese is quietly staging a comeback—delivering everything from structured reds to chillable, playful styles. → SF Chronicle

🌿 Sustainable sips: 21 wines—from Spain’s Cava to Greek whites—are proving eco-friendly and delicious can go hand-in-hand. → Food & Wine 

Table Talk

Remember zucchini gate? Well, it turns out that was just the prologue. Our garden, once innocent and orderly, has turned full fertility goddess—spilling squash across our countertops like an offering we never asked for. We’ve pawned them off on friends, left them on neighbors’ doorsteps, and still, they multiply.

Thankfully, summer squash is as forgiving in the kitchen as it is prolific in the soil. This week, I turned to Andy Baraghani for inspiration, grilling up his sweet-and-spicy squash with herbs, chiles, and a hit of acid that brightened everything. It was the kind of dish that doesn’t steal the show but holds it together—quietly, confidently.

There’s something deeply satisfying about cooking from abundance, even when it borders on chaos. The zucchini may be winning the war, but they’ve also brought us back to the table. And honestly, isn’t that what summer’s about? Messy bowls, smoky air, second helpings, and the thrill of making something beautiful from whatever the garden gives you.

Off the Vine

📖 Ocean Vuong’s prose has a way of softening time. His latest novel, The Emperor of Gladness, pulled me back to small-town streets and long summer evenings—reminding me of where I’m from and why I left. I’m only partway through, but already certain this will end up on my short list of 2025 favorites. Few writers distill memory quite like Vuong.

💆🏻‍♂️ I recently decided it was time to level up my skincare. A tiny sample of Augustinus Bader’s eye cream had me convinced I was reversing age overnight. Yes, it’s a splurge—but the formula is clean, the science is solid, and honestly? I’m in my self-care era.

🐻 The Bear just dropped its third season, and we binged it in a single weekend. It’s a bit less chaotic this time around, but no less poignant. I love how the show continues to capture the messy brilliance behind running a restaurant—and how food, even in the chaos, remains the great connector.

Here’s to rosé refills, grilled everything, and stories told under the stars. I’ll be back soon—with more wine, more notes, more life.

— Nick

It’s been a minute.

The truth is, life has gotten in the way of me finding time to sit down and write. I uprooted my life—again (fourth time in the past few years, for those counting). My day job has been demanding in ways I didn’t fully anticipate. And I may have underestimated just how intense WSET Diploma studies would be.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, I’ve been trying to soak up what I can of Napa Valley. I bought an e-bike for weekend rides along the Vine Trail. I’ve been visiting wineries, tasting my way through the valley, trying to meet new people and find my rhythm here. And there are some exciting new side projects taking shape too—though more on those another time.

But if I’m being honest…I feel like I’m running on exhaust fumes at the moment.

I’ve always had a tendency to bite off more than I can chew. And right now feels like one of those times. My mind’s constantly buzzing—especially, it seems, in the middle of the night when I’m supposed to be asleep. (Shoutout to my fellow insomniacs.) Slowing down is hard for me. I’m trying. Some days I do better than others.

And as I’m sitting here writing this, I keep thinking about what I set out to do with this newsletter in the first place—and where I want to take it now.

Here’s the thing: I’m not a wine expert. I might know a bit more than your average consumer. But the more I learn, the more I realize just how much more there is to know.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize I don’t want Far Ouest to be a platform for wine education. I want it to be a place to document a life lived through wine—and everything else that brings me joy along the way.

That might sound silly (or make it sound like I have a problem), but much in the same way I believe wine can be a catalyst for conversation and connection, so can so many other parts of my life. I love to cook. I love to read. I listen to music constantly. I work out regularly—mostly so I can eat and drink like the epicurean I am at heart while still existing as a gay man in my mid-30s and all the insecurities that come with that. These are the things that feed me, and they belong here too.

I know this is a little different from where I started. But if you’re still here, I hope you’ll stick around. There’s a lot of good wine ahead—and a lot of life to pair with it. And while it might not be to everyone’s taste, it feels right. More intentional. More authentic. More…me.

And much like what I seek out in a good bottle of wine, I think it’s only fair to show up here with that same level of intention. So hopefully, this space evolves into one that rewards slowing down. One that feels, in some small way, like opening a special bottle you’ve been saving.

Thanks for being here—for however long you’ve been along for the ride. I’m just getting started.

What’s in My Glass

2023 Orixe Sotelo “Soto” Godello — Sonoma Valley

If you’ve stuck around this long, you’ll know by now that I have an adventurous palate. Sure, there are plenty of tried-and-true favorites I come back to, but I like trying new things—and this one was a perfect match.

Godello is a Spanish varietal known for its textured mouthfeel and distinct salinity—especially the ones coming from the slate soils in Valdeorras. But this one’s from the base of Sonoma Mountain—a rarity in California.

There’s a lively citrus note on the nose—more grapefruit than lemon or lime—and a faint whiff of a seaside breeze. The palate hits like summer in a glass with apricot, green pear, and a hint of waxiness.

All around, it’s a lovely summer sipper I’ll be bringing to alfresco dinner parties. And honestly? It reminded me why I keep chasing these unexpected bottles—because sometimes, in the middle of a heavy week, all you need is one wine that surprises you.

World of Wine

What caught my eye this week.

✅ Sip solo: The way we drink wine is changing—but sometimes, slowing down is just what we need. Read it on Substack →

✅ From source to bottle: Tap water is so passé. The new hydration snobs are chasing terroir...in water. The New York Times →

✅ Sober Somms: Appreciation doesn’t have to mean indulgence—these wine professionals prove it. Decanter →

Table Talk

Rigatoni with White Bolognese + Old-School Chablis

There’s something deeply satisfying about a hearty pasta dish. As of late, this one’s been my favorite. No tomatoes. No tricks. Just aromatics, ground meat, white wine, and lots of Parmesan. It’s the kind of dish that rewards patience.

🍝 Rigatoni with White Bolognese – NYT Cooking

While I usually subscribe to the rule of “what grows together, goes together,” my wine pairing of choice here would be an old-school bottle of Chablis—something with a bit of age and edge. The acidity cuts through the richness of the dish without stealing the show, while the nutty flavors that develop over time play beautifully with the umami of the porcinis.

Off the Vine

A few other things making life taste better lately:

🥒 For the first time since…well, ever…I’m trying my hand at gardening. So far, it’s been a wild success. I’m up to my ears in zucchinis, which seem to grow at the rate of the DOW in a bull market.

📖 This has been a long time in the making, but I just started the 12-week program outlined in The Artist’s Way. I’ve had the book (and flirted with it) since the pandemic—but never actually followed through. Maybe it’s the burnout, maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s just time—but I’m finally ready to see what’s waiting on the other side of week twelve.

🍶 Like most Americans, my encounters with sake were traditionally limited to low-grade plonk alongside giant bottles of Sapporo. But recently I’ve been indulging in the finer side of Japan’s iconic rice wine. My current favorite: Tedori-gawa Tsuyusanzen Junmai Daiginjo “A Thousand Drops of Dew”

Here’s to summer plates, quiet sips, new creative practices, and whatever else keeps us soft and steady in the middle of it all. More soon.

— Nick

It’s been a minute. Okay, maybe a few. But when I said this Substack would be weekly(ish), I meant it. Sometimes life barrels in and hijacks your schedule—especially when you’re busy uprooting your life and chasing a dream.

So here it is:
I moved to Napa.

Yep. The grape-drenched, sun-kissed, wine-slicked capital of American viniculture. The place where tasting rooms outnumber post offices. The move has been a long time coming—probably not all that surprising if you’ve been paying attention—but now it’s official. About a week ago, my husband and I packed up our life in LA and headed north to make a new home among the vines.

Back when I lived in San Francisco, Napa was my escape hatch. During the pandemic, when the city felt like a ghost town, a short drive north opened into a world of rolling hills, sun-soaked vineyards, and wines that made time feel slower—if only for a weekend. That’s where the obsession started. What began as a hobby spiraled into a full-blown love affair: with the land, the culture, the community. With the sheer audacity of trying to trap time in a bottle.

Since then, wine has gone from passion to purpose. I passed WSET Level 3 earlier this year (still the hardest exam I’ve ever taken), and next week, I’m diving headfirst into the WSET Diploma program—a two-year, borderline-masochistic commitment to mastering wine at an advanced level. Late nights reading about phylloxera and pH balance? Let’s go. I’m ready.

This is also the first time since I was 17 that I’ve lived outside a big city. We’ve traded sirens and smog for birdsong and breeze—though I’ll admit the local bluejay has more attitude than half the people I knew in LA. It’s quiet here. Strangely quiet. And yet, it already feels like home.

In just a few short days, I’ve met vineyard managers, cellar rats, sommeliers, and producers who are shaking up the status quo. Napa isn’t just cabernet and couture. It’s changing. And I plan to be in the thick of it.

We kicked off our first weekend as locals with a visit to a legendary estate I’ve been eyeing for years—more on that soon. But for now, I’m soaking it all in: the scent of crushed lavender in the air, the ridgeline hikes through Mayacamas and Vaca, the endless rows of vines that hum with possibility.

I don’t know exactly what’s ahead. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

More soon.
—Nick

But some wines? They don’t just age. They evolve. They expand. They settle into themselves. And if you catch them at the right moment, they taste like something otherworldly. They taste like time.

To understand how wine changes, you need to know how it smells. This is the language of wine’s life cycle. Not marketing fluff—actual aromatic evolution. The good stuff. The strange stuff. The part that might turn you into a lifer.

Primary Aromas: Loud, Bright, and Bursting

These are the attention-grabbers. They come directly from the grape—no winemaking trickery, no aging, just raw material. Think of them as the wine’s youthful energy. All fruit, flowers, and herbs, often dialed up to eleven.

What to expect:

• Fruit: strawberry, raspberry, plum, blackcurrant

• Citrus: lemon zest, grapefruit, orange oil

• Floral: violet, rose, elderflower

• Herbs: green bell pepper, mint, tarragon, tomato leaf

• Mineral: chalk, crushed stone, saline

Primary aromas dominate young wines—especially fresh whites, rosés, and early-drinking reds. They’re bright, direct, and easy to love. But they don’t last.

Secondary Aromas: The Winemaker’s Signature

This is where process enters the picture. Secondary aromas are created during fermentation and aging, depending on the vessels used (stainless steel, oak, concrete, etc.). These are less about grape, more about technique.

What to expect:

• Yeast-driven: bread dough, brioche, toast, beer

• Malolactic fermentation: butter, cream, lactic tang

• Oak aging: vanilla, clove, cedar, coconut, baking spice

• Lees contact: cheese rind, almond, hazelnut

Secondary aromas show up when the wine is still young, but layered. They provide texture, richness, and tension. In whites, this can mean creamy weight. In reds, more spice or a smoky edge.

Tertiary Aromas: The Whisper of Time

This is where things get interesting. Tertiary aromas develop slowly—sometimes over decades—as wine ages in the bottle. Oxygen, time, and internal chemistry begin to shift the aromatic profile. Fruit fades. Earth rises.

What to expect:

• Dried fruit: fig, prune, date

• Earth: mushroom, wet leaves, forest floor, compost

• Spice: tobacco, cigar box, incense, nutmeg

• Oxidative tones: coffee, soy, balsamic, roasted nuts

• Dried florals: potpourri, dried rose, tea leaf

Not everyone likes this stage. In fact, many casual drinkers hate it—where’s the fruit? But for those who learn to love it, it’s mesmerizing. A quiet kind of wildness.

What Aging Actually Does

Aging isn’t just a timeline. It’s chemistry in slow motion.

• Fruit esters degrade. That’s why older wines smell less like fruit and more like dried or savory elements.

• Tannins polymerize. In red wines, this means the structure softens and becomes silkier.

• Color shifts. Reds lose pigment (ruby becomes brick). Whites deepen (pale straw becomes gold or amber).

• Acid softens perception. While the pH doesn’t change drastically, aged wines feel less sharp.

• Aromas integrate. Nothing shouts. Everything harmonizes.

Red vs. White: Aging Pathways

Aging doesn’t look the same across all wines. Here’s a rough cheat sheet:

Reds (with structure):

• Young: fruit, spice, tannin

• Mid-age: dried fruit, leather, olive, iron

• Old: earth, mushroom, soy, balsamic, tea

Whites (with acidity and texture):

• Young: citrus, orchard fruit, florals

• Mid-age: honey, almond, lanolin, chamomile

• Old: nutty, oxidative notes, toast, marmalade, dried flowers

Some wines (like Riesling, Sémillon, or white Rhône blends) are stunning with age. Others just fall apart. Same for reds. Pinot Noir, Nebbiolo, Cabernet, Syrah—all age differently, with their own tempo and turning points.

Why Most Wines Aren’t Built to Evolve

Around 90% of wine is made to drink within five years. That’s not a bad thing—it’s just a reality of economics and taste.

What makes a wine age-worthy?

• Acid: freshness and longevity

• Tannin: preserves structure

• Sugar: stability (in dessert wines)

• Alcohol: contributes body and preservation (in balance)

• Concentration: there has to be enough to withstand time

A cheap, cheerful red from the grocery store might be delicious tonight. But in ten years? It’s more likely to taste like faded juice and cardboard. Not every wine deserves to be cellared.

Drinking Windows: Timing the Peak

Every age-worthy wine has a sweet spot—that moment when it’s neither too tight nor too tired.

How to find it:

• Use CellarTracker or critic scores as a baseline.

• Check the producer’s website for drink/hold estimates.

• Open one early, one mid, one late—make your own map.

Drinking windows aren’t expiration dates. They’re invitations to find the wine’s voice at different volumes.

A young wine is bright and brash. An old wine is subtle and strange. But neither is inherently better. Like most things, it’s a matter of preference.

The magic lies in knowing what you’re drinking—and why. In listening to a wine’s voice at different volumes. In understanding when it’s time to savor the fruit, and when it’s time to lean in and catch the whisper.

Because aging isn’t just about what a wine becomes. It’s about what it reveals.

And once you’ve tasted that revelation, there’s no going back.

But Bordeaux isn’t just one thing. It’s not just First Growths and futures, or a monolith of expensive red blends. It’s a vast and wildly complex region—over 110,000 hectares, 60+ appellations, and more than 6,000 producers. It’s also one of the most influential wine regions on Earth: the blueprint for Napa, Tuscany, Rioja, and beyond. Its fingerprints are on nearly every Cabernet and Merlot-based wine made today.

And yet, Bordeaux has an image problem. Among everyday wine drinkers, it’s often seen as elitist or irrelevant. Among insiders, it’s dismissed for flooding the market with soulless supermarket plonk. Both are true to a point—but neither tells the full story.

Because underneath the weight of tradition, Bordeaux is changing. There’s a new generation of winemakers abandoning chemicals, questioning classifications, and rejecting the idea that Bordeaux must always taste, cost, or behave a certain way. They're farming organically, experimenting with native yeasts, and fighting to keep the region’s soul alive—often in places you’ve never heard of.

So this isn’t a deep dive into Premier Cru pricing strategies. It’s a practical, plainspoken breakdown of what Bordeaux actually is—why it’s been so important, how it’s structured, and where the real energy is right now. Whether you’re trying to decode a wine list or find bottles that overdeliver for the price, this is your crash course in the world’s most defining region.

Let’s start at the top—and tear it down from there.

The Myth and Prestige

Bordeaux is synonymous with prestige. For centuries, it has defined what fine wine looks like—stately châteaux, long cellaring potential, and a price tag to match. Much of that reputation rests on the 1855 Classification, commissioned by Napoleon III to showcase the region’s best wines at the World’s Fair in Paris. The resulting hierarchy ranked producers from First to Fifth Growths, elevating names like Lafite, Latour, Margaux, and Haut-Brion to near-mythical status.

And it worked. The system gave Bordeaux a blueprint for luxury—a way to turn history into marketing. To this day, the classification still shapes global perception and pricing, with many top-tier bottles trading more like assets than drinks.

But the system has its flaws. It ranks châteaux, not vineyards. It’s barely changed in 170 years. And while some classified estates continue to make extraordinary wine, others coast on reputation. Prestige can be powerful—but it can also be stale.

Still, the spotlight stays fixed on Bordeaux. In top vintages, the region draws breathless headlines and soaring demand. But while the world obsesses over the same sixty-one estates, something more interesting is happening offstage.

A new generation is stepping out of the shadow of classification—rewriting what Bordeaux can be, one bottle at a time.

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A Coin with Two Sides

Bordeaux is split by the Gironde estuary—and with it, the region’s soul. The Left Bank is built on gravel, Cabernet Sauvignon, and legacy. The Right Bank leans into clay, Merlot, and elegance. Understand that divide, and you’ll unlock the rhythm of Bordeaux.

Left Bank = Cabernet Sauvignon + Gravel + Structure

The Left Bank is where Bordeaux puts on its armor. These are wines built for the long haul—structured, tannic, age-worthy. Expect blackcurrant, graphite, cedar, and a touch of swagger.

• Médoc & Haut-Médoc

  Home to the largest concentration of classified estates. Wines are firm, classic, and often austere in youth. Great bottles unfurl over decades.

• Margaux

  The most elegant expression of the Left Bank. Silky texture, floral aromatics, and an almost Burgundian finesse wrapped in Bordeaux frame.

• Pauillac

  The heavyweight. Dense, powerful, and unmistakably Cabernet-driven. Flavors of cassis, tobacco, pencil shavings, and authority.

• Graves / Pessac-Léognan

  Where red meets white. Reds show spice and mineral lift, while dry whites—made from Sauvignon Blanc and Sémillon—offer freshness, texture, and ageability.

Right Bank = Merlot + Clay + Plushness

The Right Bank trades structure for seduction. These wines are softer, rounder, and often more approachable young. Red fruit, mocha, herbs, and a warm, generous core.

• Saint-Émilion

  Known for its limestone plateaus and dramatic slopes. Wines blend Merlot’s richness with Cabernet Franc’s lift. Structured, but layered with polish.

• Pomerol

  Small, unclassified, and legendary. Pure Merlot magic—dense yet velvety, with notes of plum, truffle, and cocoa. Less architecture, more emotion.

• Fronsac, Castillon, Côtes de Bordeaux

  The frontier zones. More freedom, more value, more surprises. These are the places to find energy, honesty, and experimentation—often at half the price.

Bordeaux isn’t just red blends and rigid rules. It’s a landscape of contrast—between banks, soils, and philosophies. Once you taste that tension, you start to see the whole picture.

Bordeaux at a Crossroads

Legacy can be a prison. And Bordeaux, for all its wealth and history, is starting to feel the squeeze.

The climate is moving faster than the old rules can adapt. Summers are hotter. Vintages are more extreme. Sugar levels skyrocket, acidity plummets, and alcohols creep past 15%. In some cases, Merlot—the Right Bank’s backbone—ripens too quickly. Estates once tied to Cabernet Sauvignon are rethinking their blends. Others are quietly planting once-obscure varieties like Touriga Nacional and Castets to future-proof their vineyards.

Consumer values are changing, too. People want transparency. Fewer chemicals. Less manipulation. More authenticity. The glossy, high-octane style Bordeaux leaned into in the 2000s doesn’t resonate the same way it used to. Younger drinkers are seeking freshness, sustainability, and soul.

And the market? The en primeur system feels increasingly antiquated. The classified growths keep getting more expensive, but outside that top tier, producers are struggling. Competition is global now—and Burgundy, the Jura, Tuscany, the Rhône are all gunning for the same attention, with far less baggage.

So Bordeaux has a choice: evolve or ossify.

The good news? Some producers already are. Quietly, radically, sometimes at great risk. They’re rewilding vineyards. Rejecting chemicals. Bottling wines with energy and nerve. Some come from classified estates; others work outside the system entirely.

They’re not here to burn Bordeaux down. They’re here to save it.

The New World of Bordeaux

There’s a quiet revolution happening in Bordeaux—but not where you’d expect.

It’s not in the limestone cellars of First Growth châteaux. It’s in Castillon, Francs, Sainte-Foy—places once dismissed as afterthoughts. It’s in the hands of young winemakers inheriting their family’s vines and refusing to make wine the way their parents did. It’s in the decisions to farm without chemicals, to harvest by hand, to ferment with native yeast and let the land speak.

This new generation isn’t trying to tear Bordeaux down—they’re trying to wake it up.

For decades, Bordeaux’s identity has been tethered to classification systems, luxury pricing, and stylistic conformity. Wines were engineered to please critics, aged in 100% new oak, made to taste the same year after year. And while that model still dominates, it’s starting to crack.

The new wave is different. These producers are seeking freshness over force, clarity over weight. They’re lowering extraction, scaling back oak, bottling wines that feel alive. They’re turning forgotten appellations into hotbeds of experimentation. And some of them are making the most soulful, compelling Bordeaux in a generation.

This isn’t a trend. It’s a shift in values.

They’re not chasing scores. They’re chasing balance, energy, and a kind of truth that Bordeaux hasn’t always allowed. And in doing so, they’re proving that Bordeaux’s future doesn’t have to be bound by its past.

What Defines the New Wave of Bordeaux

There’s no manifesto, no official alliance—but there is a shared ethos. Across the region, a growing number of producers—some small and scrappy, others iconic and historic—are reimagining what Bordeaux can be. Here’s what unites them:

Farming with Intention
This new generation isn’t just growing grapes—they’re rebuilding ecosystems. Whether certified organic or fully biodynamic, the focus is on soil health, biodiversity, and long-term sustainability.

→ Château Pontet-Canet (Pauillac) was the first classified growth to adopt biodynamics—and a blueprint for regenerative farming at scale. Horses in the vineyard, minimal intervention in the cellar, and wines that channel place over polish.

Working Outside the System
Many of the most exciting wines today don’t carry the most prestigious appellations—or any at all. Instead, they rely on transparency, not classification, to earn their place.

→ Château Le Puy (Francs-Côtes de Bordeaux) abandoned the AOC system entirely, refusing to compromise on its natural winemaking ethos. The result? Wines that feel singular, soulful, and defiantly Bordeaux.

Letting the Wine Speak First
Less extraction. Less oak. Less ego. These winemakers are scaling back in the cellar to let terroir lead. The goal isn’t to impress—it’s to express.

→ Domaine de Chevalier (Pessac-Léognan) crafts reds and whites with rare precision and restraint. Sustainably farmed and aged with nuance, their wines are among the few that rival Burgundy for elegance and longevity.

Embracing Forgotten Places
Not all great Bordeaux comes from Pauillac or Pomerol. Some of the most vital work is happening in the margins—Castillon, Sainte-Foy, Fronsac—where freedom still exists.

→ Château le Rey (Castillon) blends organic farming with modern precision, making Merlot-based wines that are vibrant, balanced, and wildly drinkable.

Reconnecting with the Human Side of Wine
Less château, more cellar. These producers are winemakers first—not brand managers. You’ll find them pruning vines, driving tractors, racking barrels.

→ Clos du Jaugueyron (Margaux / Haut-Médoc) is a tiny, biodynamic operation working grand terroir with a human hand. Honest, elegant, and quietly radical.

These aren’t just wines. They’re signals. A reminder that Bordeaux isn’t bound by its past—it’s being rebuilt, vine by vine.

Final Pour

Bordeaux doesn’t need defending—but it does need rediscovering.

For too long, the region has been boxed in by its own mythology: classified growths, Parker points, futures auctions, and a style that seemed carved in stone. But Bordeaux was never meant to be static. Its greatest strength has always been its capacity to adapt.

Today, that adaptation looks different. It’s not driven by merchants or marketers. It’s driven by growers walking their own vineyards, asking better questions. How can we work with nature, not against it? How do we make wine that reflects a place instead of polishing it into sameness? How do we honor tradition without being shackled by it?

The answers aren’t coming from the top down. They’re coming from the fringes, the margins, and yes—even a few classified châteaux who’ve dared to change course.

So if you’ve written Bordeaux off as too old, too corporate, too expensive, or too boring—good. That means you’re ready to meet it again, on different terms.

Bordeaux isn’t back. It never left. 

But it is changing. And it’s never been more worth your time.

First off—sorry for the late post this week. I’ve been on the road for work and decided to test-drive something new: a weekend read. If you like it, great. If you hate it, I’ll take the note. Either way, I’m glad you’re here.

Today we’re taking a break from the usual tasting notes and producer spotlights to talk about something that’s about to hit every shelf, cellar, and glass: tariffs.

Yes, I’m talking about Trump’s new tariffs—a sweeping, shortsighted attempt at economic saber-rattling that’s about to gut an industry that’s already hanging by a thread and will soon result in higher prices for all of us.

Wine is now weaponized

No major wine region was spared. France, Italy, Germany, Spain, New Zealand, Argentina, Australia—every major global producer now faces up to 30% tariffs just for the privilege of landing a bottle on U.S. soil. A few regions are seeing 100%. That’s not a tax. That’s a middle finger.

And if you’ve heard the talking point that this will “help” American winemakers, let’s get something straight: this is nothing short of a fantasy dressed in patriotic drag.

What’s a tariff, and why does Trump love them so much?

Tariffs are just taxes on imports. They’re supposed to make foreign goods more expensive, nudging buyers toward homegrown options. It’s a tactic as old as trade itself—and about as subtle as a lead pipe to the knees.

Trump’s take? The world has screwed America for too long, and now it’s time to play hardball. The wine tariffs are part of a broader trade tantrum aimed at settling unrelated disputes—think planes and cheese and steel.

Wine just got caught in the crossfire.

But won’t this help U.S. winemakers?

Not even close.

Because wine doesn’t live in a vacuum. It’s a global organism. And this trade war just slashed the vines.

American producers rely on international goods:

• French oak barrels? Up.

• Glass, cork, bottling line components? Up.

• Logistics and shipping? Up.

And that’s before we talk about export markets drying up.

Canada—our friendly neighbor and top-three export market for U.S. wine—is already boycotting American bottles in response. I spoke with a California winemaker last week who had to cancel a full shipment of this year’s release. His buyer pulled out. Not because of the wine. Because of the flag on the box.

So no, this isn’t a win. It’s a lose-lose. And everyone with half a braincell in the business knows it.

You can’t tariff curiosity

This is where it gets personal.

Wine isn’t just alcohol. It’s geography in a glass. It’s language, history, soil, scars.

You can’t fake Barolo. You can’t swap in Napa Cab and call it Bordeaux. Terroir isn’t something you manufacture to win a trade dispute—it’s something you earn over centuries.

And for those of us who drink to explore, not just consume, these tariffs don’t just cut supply chains—they cut off curiosity. They shrink the world.

My entire ethos is based on the belief that there’s always something just over the ridge worth discovering.

These tariffs say: stay where you are. Drink what we give you. Don’t ask too many questions.

What it means at the register

Let’s talk numbers:

• That $25 bottle of Muscadet? Now $40–45, if it’s even imported at all.

• A $60 Bordeaux? Try $90–100.

• A $20 Portuguese red? Off the list. Not worth the cost to bring in.

• And don’t think your California bottle is safe—production costs are rising too.

It’s not just luxury that’s affected. It’s everything. The middle is being hollowed out.

My take? It’s bullshit.

I’m not going to pretend to be neutral here.

These tariffs are a flaming wreck of a policy—economically incoherent, culturally tone-deaf, and completely divorced from the reality of how wine works. They’re punishment disguised as protectionism. A rage tax.

They won’t save American winemakers.

They’ll hurt them.

And they’ll punish everyone who believes wine should be a gateway, not a gate.

So yeah. I’m angry.

Because I love wine. And I believe in a world that’s big, diverse, and generous. Not one that’s hemmed in by nationalism, bad math, and economic cosplay.

This isn’t just bad policy. It’s anti-wine.

And if that pisses some people off? Good. It should.

Not just dislike it—despise it. The kind of visceral reaction usually reserved for spoiled milk or for people who talk on speakerphone in public spaces. It wasn’t the idea that bothered me, but the execution: cloudy, fizzy, mousy, often unstable. I’d been handed too many glasses that smelled like cider and tasted like a dare.

And yet here I am, writing a defense of the very thing I once swore off.

What changed? A restaurant in Paris. A conversation with a server. And a bottle of Chénas that was floral, structured, and alive in the best possible way. It didn’t shout “natural wine.” It just whispered: this is what wine used to taste like, before we tried to make it perfect.

That bottle cracked something open.

Because here’s the truth: a lot of the wine you get your hands on today is anything but natural. And most “natural wine” is misunderstood—by its champions and its detractors alike.

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What does “natural” wine even mean?

There’s no legal definition of natural wine. That’s either its greatest strength or its biggest liability, depending on who you ask.

At its core, natural wine is about minimal intervention: organically or biodynamically farmed grapes, native yeast fermentation, little to no sulfur, and no chemical additives. But that’s a philosophy, not a checklist. And when ideology trumps execution, things fall apart fast. Which is why for every brilliant, soulful bottle of natural wine, there’s another that tastes like sink water left in the sun.

But real natural wine isn’t a trend. It’s a return. A revival of an older logic of winemaking, rooted in observation, patience, and trust. Much of that thinking traces back to biodynamic agriculture, developed in the early 20th century by Austrian philosopher Rudolf Steiner.

Steiner—best known for founding the Waldorf school movement—proposed an agricultural model that treated farms as self-sustaining ecosystems. Biodynamics emphasized lunar cycles, composting, and a kind of energetic harmony between earth and cosmos. To the uninitiated, it sounds like mysticism with dirt under its nails. But for growers fed up with industrial farming, Steiner’s ideas offered something radical: a blueprint for farming with nature instead of against it.

Many of today’s best natural winemakers—especially in Alsace, the Loire, Burgenland, and Sicily—follow biodynamic principles, whether certified or not. Not because it’s fashionable, but because it works. Their wines feel more alive, more expressive, and less sterile. Less corrected. Biodynamic farming predates the natural wine boom by nearly a century. So when you drink a great natural wine, you’re not sipping on a trend. You’re tasting a lineage. That said, lineage doesn’t guarantee quality. And that’s the tension we’re in now.

Natural wine is more visible than ever. In cities like Paris, London, LA, and Copenhagen, it’s practically the default in every wine bar worth its salt. And yet it still represents a tiny fraction of global wine production—less than 5%, depending on how you count. For something that dominates the moodboards and Instagram feeds of sommeliers and chefs, it remains a niche, misunderstood sliver of the wine world.

And maybe that’s why people still get it so wrong.

From obscurity to obsession

To understand how we got here, you have to look back at how the wine world lost its way.

Following World War II, winemaking—like agriculture at large—shifted toward industrialization. Chemical fertilizers, synthetic pesticides, and mechanized vineyard practices became the norm. Yields went up. Prices came down. But terroir? Expression? Individuality? Those got lost somewhere between the stainless steel tanks and the lab.

In that climate, a quiet resistance began to take root. A handful of winemakers started asking uncomfortable questions: What happens when you strip wine of its connection to the land? What if you let nature lead, instead of trying to control every variable?

These weren’t marketing experiments. They were acts of defiance. And in France’s Beaujolais region, they began to crystallize into a movement.

In the 1970s, a group of vignerons later dubbed the “Gang of Four”—Marcel Lapierre, Guy Breton, Jean-Paul Thévenet, and Jean Foillard—drew inspiration from Jules Chauvet, a local winemaker and chemist who preached the gospel of natural fermentation, organic farming, and zero additives.

The wines they made weren’t just different. They were alive. Vibrant. Uncorrected. They rejected the sterilized sameness of postwar winemaking in favor of something rawer, more expressive. And they laid the foundation for the modern natural wine movement.

In the decades that followed, the movement slowly expanded. First across France, then into Italy and Spain, and eventually to California, Australia, and beyond. Importers like Jenny & Francois and Louis/Dressner introduced these wines to American palates, starting in New York and radiating outward. The wines were weird. Honest. Sometimes flawed. But they carried a sense of place. A pulse. A kind of sensory magnetism that drew in chefs, sommeliers, and the kind of drinkers who cared more about story than score.

By the 2010s, natural wine wasn’t just a category—it was a vibe. It aligned with everything the cultural zeitgeist demanded: sustainability, authenticity, aesthetic maximalism, and a good story. It looked great on a shelf. It read great on a label. And it slid effortlessly into the farm-to-table, sourdough-baking, kombucha-brewing generation.

But popularity is a double-edged sword. As demand exploded, so did inconsistency. The term "natural wine" became a catch-all—co-opted, misapplied, and in some cases, weaponized. Ideology sometimes replaced technique. Purity became a marketing gimmick. And for every stunning bottle that told a story, there were five that just fell apart.

Natural wine has reached a strange place: ubiquitous in cool cities, but still deeply misunderstood by the broader wine-drinking public. It has all the cultural cachet of a movement, but none of the formal structure of one. It’s adored, hated, hyped, and misrepresented in equal measure.

But for those who know where to look, it still delivers. It still matters. Because at its core, natural wine is not a trend—it’s a quiet return to intention. And that, maybe more than ever, is worth drinking to.

What to expect from natural wine

Natural wine isn’t a style. It doesn’t follow rules. It doesn’t come neatly labeled by grape or region. If anything, it’s defined by its refusal to be easily categorized. That’s what makes it exciting—and what makes it infuriating.

Because when it’s good? It’s electric. Energetic. Alive. The kind of wine that stops you mid-conversation and demands your attention. It can be explosive like Sancerre, tense like a dry Mosel Riesling, or textured like old-school white Burgundy. It’s golden, salty, herbal, structured. It hums with acidity. It vibrates with intention.

But when it’s bad?

It’s a mess.

And this is where we need to talk about something natural wine enthusiasts sometimes ignore: faults.

In its most dogmatic form, natural wine gets equated with a kind of philosophical purity—no additives, no corrections, no compromise. But purity without precision is a gamble. And some winemakers wear flaws like a badge of honor, mistaking neglect for authenticity. Let’s be clear: there’s a difference between character and carelessness.

Common faults in natural wine (and how to spot them)

1. Brettanomyces (“Brett”)

A wild yeast that can add complexity in small doses—or wreck a wine in large ones.

Aromas:

• Wet horse

• Band-Aids

• Bacon fat

• Smoke or barnyard

When it works: Adds savory depth to reds like Syrah.

When it doesn’t: Mutes fruit, flattens texture, and smells like a petting zoo in July.

2. Mousiness

The most feared fault in the natural wine world—and one of the hardest to detect on the nose. Mousiness reveals itself after you swallow, often as a strange aftertaste.

Telltale signs:

• Cardboard or stale corn chips

• Hamster cage

• Slightly metallic or peanut-shell flavor

It’s caused by microbial instability and tends to show up more as the wine warms or sits open. Some people can’t taste it at all; others can’t forget it once they do.

Pro tip: If a wine smells great but finishes like pet bedding, you’ve found it.

3. Volatile Acidity (VA)

A little VA can lift a wine and add aromatic brightness. Too much, and you’re in nail polish remover territory.

Smells like:

• Acetone

• Vinegar

• Sour fermentation

The balance: Good VA adds tension. Bad VA burns your sinuses.

4. Oxidation

Natural wines often flirt with oxidation—especially skin-contact whites. But it’s a fine line between intention and imbalance.

Positive signs: Nutty complexity, golden hue, soft texture

Negative signs: Flabby, flat, bruised fruit, dull aromatics

So…should you be scared off?

Not at all. But you should be informed.

Natural wine isn’t inherently flawed. Some of the most age-worthy, precise, and profound wines in the world are made with no additives and wild fermentation. The difference lies in the intent—and in the skill.

When natural wine is made by people who know what they’re doing, and who are willing to dump barrels that don’t meet the mark, the result is something you can’t manufacture: energy. A kind of clarity. Wines that move. Wines that make you feel something.

And maybe that’s the point. Natural wine isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being alive—and that means sometimes taking the risk that something might go wrong.

Who’s doing it right

For all its unpredictability, natural wine has its anchors—producers who consistently marry philosophy with execution. These are the people who prove that natural wine doesn’t have to mean flawed or faddish. It can mean focused. Serious. Extraordinary.

Some of them helped start the movement. Others are refining it in real time. All of them are worth your attention.

The Pioneers

Jules Chauvet (Beaujolais, France) The godfather. A chemist and vigneron who, in the mid-20th century, laid out the blueprint for what we now call natural wine: no chemicals in the vineyard, native fermentation, and nothing added or taken away. He was decades ahead of his time.

Marcel Lapierre (Beaujolais, France) A disciple of Chauvet and the most visible face of Beaujolais’s natural renaissance. His wines showed that Gamay could be joyful and serious—clean, lifted, and completely unmanipulated. The ripple effect of his work is still being felt today.

The Icons

Christian Tschida (Burgenland, Austria) Minimalist in the vineyard, poetic in the cellar. Tschida’s wines—especially Himmel auf Erden—are skin-contact done with grace. No funk, no flaws. Just depth, detail, and an almost weightless elegance.

Arianna Occhipinti (Sicily, Italy) Farming organically in Vittoria, she champions indigenous grapes like Frappato and Nero d’Avola. Her wines are earthy, energetic, and built to age. She’s proof that natural doesn’t have to mean rustic.

Mas Candí (Penedès, Spain) Four friends reviving a region better known for mass-market Cava. Biodynamic farming, native varieties like Xarel-lo, and a total commitment to transparency. They’re part of a new wave giving Spanish wine a sharper, cleaner voice.

Theo Dancer (Burgundy, France) Yes, that Burgundy. Dancer is shaking up one of France’s most conservative regions with wines that are as clean as they are compelling. His “Nature” line shows that natural wine can still be crystalline, composed, and cellar-worthy.

The New Vanguard

Martha Stoumen (California, USA) One of the most exciting American voices in natural wine. She works with lesser-known varieties—like Nero d’Avola and Carignan—to create wines that are juicy, bright, and balanced. Low alcohol, high interest.

Gut Oggau (Burgenland, Austria) Their wines come with illustrated faces and backstories, but it’s not just clever branding. This family-run estate farms biodynamically and vinifies with care. Their reds and whites are energetic, soulful, and unmistakably alive.

Tom Shobbrook (Barossa Valley, Australia) Australia’s natural wine awakening owes a lot to Shobbrook. His wines are sun-soaked and expressive but still fresh and low-intervention. The Giallo is a cult favorite for a reason.

Lucy Margaux (Adelaide Hills, Australia) Founded by Anton von Klopper, this winery is all about boundary-pushing. Wild fermentations, zero sulfur, big personality. Not every bottle is subtle—but when they land, they’re unforgettable.

These producers span continents, styles, and generations. What unites them is an ability to work with nature—not against it—and to produce wines that are honest, character-driven, and clean. Not perfect, but compelling. Alive, not manipulated.

Bottles that prove natural wine can be great

Natural wine has a reputation problem. For every clean, expressive, thoughtfully made bottle, there’s another that tastes like a kombucha mishap. But when done right—when a winemaker balances restraint with intention—it can be extraordinary. Here are a few bottles that show what’s possible.

Skin-contact, elevated

For those scarred by cloudy orange wine with more tannin than sense.

• Christian Tschida ‘Himmel auf Erden’ (Austria) Pinot Blanc and Grüner. Extended skin contact, but no funk. Rich, floral, saline, and totally weightless.

• COS ‘Ramí’ Terre Siciliane Bianco (Italy) Grecanico and Inzolia. Structured, slightly grippy, with wild herbs and citrus peel. The perfect entry point for orange wine skeptics.

• Henri Chauvet ‘Côtes d’Auvergne Boudes Abrupts’ (France) Not technically orange, but brings a textured, volcanic minerality that scratches the same itch—clean, lifted, and quietly thrilling.

Natural red, but blean

No goat musk. No uninvited fizz. Just freshness, structure, and soul.

• Bastian Wolber ‘Laisse Tomber’ Volnay (France ) Pinot with edge. Lithe, red-fruited, and floral, but with the snap of someone refusing to play by Burgundy’s rules.

• Jean Foillard Morgon ‘Côte du Py’ (France) The benchmark for clean natural red. Dark Gamay with depth, polish, and enough acid to stand up to anything on the table.

• Arnot-Roberts ‘North Coast’ Syrah (California) Not labeled “natural,” but vinified with a light touch. Cracked pepper, black olive, and savory structure—proof that intervention isn’t always necessary.

• Martha Stoumen ‘Post Flirtation Red’ (California) A chillable blend that drinks like a picnic. Carignan, Zin, and more—bright, juicy, and deceptively complex.

Zippy, electric whites

Lean, bright, mineral-driven wines that make your palate sit up straight.

• Envínate ‘Taganan Blanco’ (Canary Islands) Volcanic field blend. Citrus rind, smoke, salt air. One of the most thrilling whites in natural wine.

• Domaine de la Pépière Muscadet ‘Clisson’ (France) Melon de Bourgogne aged on lees. Chalky, briny, and laser-focused—like Chablis that spent a summer in Brittany.

• Theo Dancer ‘Bouzeron’ (Burgundy, France) Aligoté made with the transparency of someone who has nothing to prove. Crystalline citrus, whisper-light, endlessly elegant.

• La Garagista ‘Loup d’Or’ (Vermont, USA) Yes, Vermont. From hybrid grapes grown biodynamically. Alpine and herbal, with biting acidity and zero pretense.

If you’re over Burgundy, but still want the energy

Bottles with nuance, lift, and age-worthiness—without the collector tax.

• Arianna Occhipinti ‘SP68’ Rosso (Sicily, Italy) Frappato and Nero d’Avola. Light in body, big on texture and spice. A Sicilian love letter to Burgundy fans.

• Clos du Rouge Gorge ‘Jeunes Vignes’ (Roussillon, France) Carignan with elegance. Silky tannins, wild herbs, and southern French sun without the heat.

• Matthiasson ‘Linda Vista Chardonnay’ (Napa, USA) A rare thing: a California Chardonnay that’s clean, lean, and naturally made. No makeup, no butter—just balance.

• Theo Dancer ‘Les Champs Cadet’ Bourgogne Blanc (France) A new-school voice in old-school territory. Natural Meursault with cut and quiet tension.

Where to buy natural wine

Finding natural wine isn’t like picking up a bottle at Whole Foods. Allocations are small. Labels change often. And some producers you’ve never heard of today will be impossible to find by next year. That said, there are a handful of retailers who consistently get it right. These are the ones I turn to.

🛒 Online Retailers That Ship Nationally

Primal Wine (CA)

primalwine.com Well-stocked with natural wines that range from geeky to crowd-pleasing. Transparent sourcing, rotating selection, and solid education built in.

Chambers Street Wines (NYC)

chambersstwines.com The O.G. of natural and low-intervention wine retail. Legendary curation. If it’s on the shelf here, it’s been vetted by people who drink for a living.

Flatiron Wines & Spirits (NYC & SF)

flatiron-wines.com Balanced between classic and cutting-edge. Their newsletters are sharp, and the staff picks actually mean something.

Verve Wine (NYC, SF, Chicago)

vervewine.com Slicker than the others, but smartly curated. You won’t find fringe bottles here, but what they do carry is clean, balanced, and intentional.

Shopping tips to keep in mind

• Always check the vintage. These wines can vary wildly from year to year. 2021 might sing. 2022 might sulk.

• Sign up for shop newsletters. The best bottles often never make it to the website.

• Avoid summer shipping unless overnight or insulated. Natural wines are sensitive—treat them accordingly.

The natural wine paradox

Natural wine is messy. It’s inconsistent, unpredictable, often over-hyped, and occasionally underwhelming. It’s been co-opted, romanticized, misrepresented, and sold as a vibe to people who care more about label design than cellar integrity.

And yet.

When it’s made with care—by someone who understands farming, fermentation, and restraint—it’s electric. It has a pulse. It tells a story that feels rooted in something older, slower, more essential. Not a marketing campaign, but a worldview.

Because natural wine isn’t just about what’s not in the bottle. It’s about what’s left in.

It’s about trust. About letting the vineyard speak. About embracing risk in a world obsessed with predictability. And sure, sometimes that means the wine doesn’t land. But when it does? It’s unforgettable.

It’s a reminder that wine doesn’t have to be polished to be profound. That delicious and serious aren’t mutually exclusive. That imperfection, handled thoughtfully, can be a feature—not a flaw.

So no, I don’t think natural wine is the future.

I think it’s the past—restored. A return to intention in an industry that’s gotten too good at controlling outcomes. It’s not for everyone. But if you care about what you drink—and how it’s made—it’s a frontier worth exploring.

Wild. Risky. Alive.

There’s a grape glut. Looming tariffs. A generation that drinks less, and when they do, they’re just as likely to reach for cannabis as Cabernet. Consumption is down, yet prices keep climbing. The era of bigger, riper, bolder isn’t what the next generation of wine lovers is looking for. The model that made Napa a legend is being tested. And the valley is being forced to ask itself: What now?

Not every winery is built to last. Some will adapt. Some will fade. But a few—those that have never chased trends—stand as proof that Napa’s future might look a lot like its past.

I recently visited two such estates—one perched high in the mountains, the other tucked into a canyon. One shaped by wind and stone, the other by gravel and heat. Both make Cabernet Sauvignon. Both have cult followings. But their wines? Worlds apart.

Mayacamas and Diamond Creek are among Napa’s most historic producers. But in a sense, they are opposites. One defiant, the other precise. One rugged, the other refined. They’ve both been called relics, but the truth is, they might just be Napa’s future.

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The Valley Floor Purist

I first tasted Diamond Creek at Lazy Bear in San Francisco. The name doesn’t carry the weight of a Screaming Eagle or Harlan, but among collectors, these wines are sacred. Small production. No flashy marketing. Just patience, precision, and time.

Al Brounstein, the maverick behind Diamond Creek, was never one to follow the rules. In the late 1960s, he smuggled Bordeaux cuttings into California via Mexico—no paperwork, no quarantine. Just a vision. What grew from that gamble became Napa’s first single-vineyard Cabernet estate. Before “terroir” was a buzzword, before cult wines were a thing, Diamond Creek was proving that Napa’s soils mattered.

Exclusivity at Diamond Creek was never about hype. It was about scarcity. The estate has never made much wine, and what it does make isn’t designed for immediate pleasure. These wines are tight, structured, almost severe in their youth. They reward patience, not instant gratification.

Its uniqueness lies in its land. The estate has four dramatically different vineyard sites within mere acres of each other.

• Volcanic Hill – Dark, brooding, powerful. A heat magnet that yields wines of intensity and structure.

• Red Rock Terrace – Iron-rich soils, cooler exposure, wines with richness and depth.

• Gravelly Meadow – A former riverbed, low water retention, lower yields—producing wines of structure and finesse.

• Lake – The rarest, coolest site, struggling to ripen in all but the warmest years, yielding wines of impossible delicacy.

Such diversity within a single property shatters the idea that Napa is a monolith. It underscores the valley’s geological complexity—something often overshadowed by branding and pricing.

The Mountain Outlier

Where Diamond Creek is about refinement, Mayacamas is about resistance. Perched 2,400 feet up on Mount Veeder, this winery has survived fires, earthquakes, and Napa’s shift toward opulence. Founded in 1889 at the height of the Gold Rush, it remains one of the valley’s most historic estates. And its wines? They don’t care about trends.

Mayacamas still uses concrete tanks for fermenting its Cabernet, a method most Napa estates abandoned decades ago. It still uses neutral oak, letting structure and acidity do the heavy lifting instead of new wood. The result? Wines that don’t beg for approval. They demand time, patience, and an appreciation for restraint. They are more Bordelaise than Californian, but with a precision that only Napa’s light and elevation can provide.

Since 2013, Mayacamas has doubled down on its identity. The vineyards are now fully organic. Biodynamic principles guide production. Nothing is forced. Everything is deliberate.

The mountain itself shapes these wines. The vineyards sit above the fog line, with long growing seasons and cold nights that preserve acidity. The wines stand in direct contrast to the plush, fruit-forward styles of the valley floor. These aren’t Cabs built for immediate seduction; they’re built for the long haul.

Mayacamas has also resisted the pressure to expand production or shift toward a more consumer-friendly style. While many Napa estates have softened their tannins, increased their alcohol, and embraced the plush, fruit-forward identity that critics reward, Mayacamas has stayed its course. That kind of steadfastness is increasingly rare in a valley where financial pressures push wineries toward accessibility and mass appeal.

Where Does Napa’s Future Lie?

Mayacamas and Diamond Creek sit on opposite ends of Napa’s topography, but they share something rare: an indifference to expectation. Neither has chased the valley’s shift toward hyper-luxury, toward softness, toward the easy sell. And that’s exactly why they still matter.

As Napa grapples with oversupply, shifting drinking habits, and an uncertain economic landscape, these estates stand as proof that the region’s greatest wines aren’t always the ones chasing trends. They are the ones that hold the line.

Napa is at an inflection point. The valley’s reputation was built by visionaries who believed in the land before it was profitable. But the past few decades have seen an industry increasingly shaped by money—wineries as investments, bottles as status symbols, exclusivity driven by price rather than principle.

Yet markets shift. Consumers evolve. And there is a growing hunger for authenticity. For wines that taste like somewhere. Wines that don’t need a marketing playbook to be relevant.

Mayacamas and Diamond Creek prove that Napa doesn’t have to reinvent itself to stay relevant. It just has to remember what made it great in the first place.

The future of Napa isn’t just about price tags and prestige. It’s about which vision of greatness wins out—the one that leans into excess, or the one that looks back to move forward.

From Peak to Creek, the battle for Napa’s identity is still being fought. The only question is: who will define it?

Something about this shift in energy makes me feel lighter—almost younger. And just as I’m trading thick sweaters for lighter layers, I find myself reaching for wines that mirror the season’s vitality. Winter was for rich, brooding reds and the kind of whites that felt like wearing a weighted blanket. But spring? Spring is a time for wines with lift, wines that hum with freshness and possibility.

In my family and friend circles, I’m the de facto 'wine guy'—this is the time of year when the requests start rolling in: What should I bring to Easter brunch? What pairs with asparagus? I don’t want rosé, but I also don’t want red—help! Whether it’s my mom, who would happily bathe in buttery Chardonnay, or my dad, whose loyalty to high-octane Napa Cab borders on religious, picking a bottle that keeps everyone happy is no small feat.

So this time, I’m handing the reins over to you.

This is my personal selection of spring-ready wines, spanning styles, regions, and price points—but all bound by one thing: they match the energy of the season. Whether you’re in the mood for a razor-sharp white, a wild aromatic curveball, or a red that can handle a chill, you’ll find something here.

Now grab a glass. Let’s drink.

Crisp Whites – Bright, Refreshing, & Electric

(For when the air is crisp, and you want a wine to match)

Balea Rosé Getariako Txakolina (Basque Country, Spain)
While technically a rosé, this lightly fizzy, high-acid Basque wine tastes like wild strawberries, grapefruit zest, and salty sea air.

Nikolaihof 'Hefeabzug' Grüner Veltliner (Wachau, Austria)
This biodynamic estate makes laser-focused Grüner—lime peel, white pepper, and a streak of flinty minerality. 

Liquid Farm ‘White Hill’ Chardonnay (Santa Rita Hills, USA)
Not your usual California Chardonnay. Lean, mineral, and citrusy, with a cool-climate saltiness and an aromatic brightness that lingers.

Weingut Keller 'Limestone' Riesling (Rheinhessen, Germany)
If Riesling were an electric current, this would be high voltage.

Tatomer ‘Kick-On Ranch’ Riesling (Santa Barbara, USA)
A California Riesling with tension. Meyer lemon, green apple, and a long, ocean-breeze finish.

Domaine de la Pépière Muscadet Sèvre et Maine Sur Lie (Loire, France)
Briny, mineral, and bone-dry—I challenge you to find a better oyster wine.

Textured Whites – Skin-Contact & Bold Beauties

(For when you want a white with grip, weight, and a little wildness)

Sandhi “La Rinconada” Chardonnay (Santa Rita Hills, USA)
Grilled peaches, crème brûlée and a mineral-driven core that can stand up to the finest white Bourgogne. 

Radikon ‘Slatnik’ (Friuli, Italy)
Golden-hued, nutty, and slightly tannic—a gateway into the world of serious orange wine.

Azienda Agricola COS ‘Pithos’ Bianco (Sicily, Italy)
Grecanico aged in amphora, bringing out a salty, honeyed depth.

Domaine Huët Vouvray Sec ‘Clos du Bourg’ (Loire, France)
Chenin Blanc at its best—salted apple, honeycomb, and cardamom, wrapped in a texture that feels both generous and precise.

Jolie-Laide Trousseau Gris (Russian River Valley, USA)
Silky and aromatic—nectarine, white tea, and delicate florals.

Tiberio Pecorino (Abruzzo, Italy)
Zippy, herbal, and textured, with citrus peel and fresh sage.

Aromatic Wildcard – Floral, Textured, & Unexpected

(For when you want a white that keeps you guessing)

Foradori ‘Fontanasanta’ Nosiola (Trentino, Italy)
You already know I love Foradori, and this is a symphony of subtle florals, mountain herbs, and a hint of nuttiness—like a meadow in bloom, bottled.

Domaine Ostertag ‘Les Jardins’ Pinot Gris (Alsace, France)
Silky, aromatic, and layered with pear, spice, and honeysuckle.

Larkmead ‘Lillie’ Sauvignon Blanc (Napa Valley, USA)
Lush yet structured, with citrus zest and a mineral core—Sauv Blanc, elevated.

I Clivi ‘Galea’ Friulano (Friuli, Italy)
Textural with orchard fruit, wildflowers, and a hint of almond. 

Ovum ‘Big Salt’ (Oregon, USA)
Grown in volcanic soils. Salty, floral, and citrusy with a touch of spice—wild yet balanced.

Domaine Matassa ‘Cuvee Marguerite’ (Roussillon, France)
Muscat and Macabeo blend—floral, lightly oxidative, and wildly expressive.

Serious Rosé – Structured, Age-Worthy, & Complex

(Not your average poolside pink—these have real depth)

Château Simone Palette Rosé (Provence, France)
A historic Provence rosé from the tiny Palette AOC—structured, savory, and built to age, with aristocratic finesse.

Domaine Tempier Bandol Rosé (Provence, France)
An iconic, full-bodied rosé that’s as serious as they come. Layers of wild strawberry, crushed herbs, and a saline edge—built to evolve in the glass (or in the cellar).

Benanti Viticoltori Etna Rosato (Sicily, Italy)
Salmon-hued and smoky, with the freshness of a Mediterranean breeze.

Matthiasson Rosé (Napa Valley, USA)
Crisp and mineral, with wild strawberries and an herbal, citrus-tinged finish.

Clos Cibonne Côtes de Provence Rosé ‘Tradition’ (Provence, France)
Savory and rich, with the elegance of aged rosé and a streak of salted peach.

Envinate ‘La Santa de Úrsula’ Rosado (Canary Islands, Spain)
Laced with volcanic minerality and tart red fruit, this is rosé with an edge.

Lighter Reds – Chillable, Fresh, & Full of Energy

(For when red feels right, but you need something that won’t weigh you down)

Bernard Baudry 'Les Granges' Chinon (Loire, France)
Bright and juicy, with red berries, wild herbs, and just the right amount of green pepper bite. The definition of effortless drinking.

Combe "Stolpman Vineyard" Ballard Canyon Trousseau (California, USA)
Jura who? This California-grown Trousseau is light, earthy, and silky, with a touch of spice. Best served chilled and poured generously.

Envínate ‘Benje’ Tinto (Tenerife, Spain)
A volcanic masterpiece. Savory, smoky, and wild, like crushed raspberries licked by an open flame.

Weingut Weninger ‘Ponzichter’ (Burgenland, Austria)
A biodynamic Austrian red that drinks like Pinot with a little extra spice—cranberry, anise, and pure lift.

Arianna Occhipinti ‘SP68’ Rosso (Sicily, Italy)
Frappato and Nero d’Avola in perfect harmony—crunchy red fruit, a touch of pepper, and the taste of Sicilian sunshine.

Broc Cellars ‘Love Red’ (California, USA)
California Carignan with serious personality—bramble fruit, bright acidity, and just enough funk to keep things interesting.

Savory & Earthy Reds – Deep, Herbaceous, & Mineral-Driven

(For when you need a red with depth, but not heaviness)

Ravines Cabernet Franc (Finger Lakes, NY, USA)
Cool-climate Cabernet Franc—savory, structured, and endlessly drinkable.

Domaine de L’Anglore Lirac (Rhône, France)
A Grenache-based red with soul. Silky, peppery, and brimming with wild berries.

Tenuta delle Terre Nere Etna Rosso (Sicily, Italy)
Nerello Mascalese grown on volcanic slopes—bright red fruit and flinty minerality.

Domaine des Roches Neuves Saumur-Champigny ‘Terres Chaudes’ (Loire, France)
Dark, herbal, and laced with minerality.

Domaine du Pélican Arbois Rouge (Jura, France)
Think bright red berries, forest floor, and a whisper of smoke, with a kind of lift and energy.

Thymiopoulos ‘Earth & Sky’ Xinomavro (Naoussa, Greece)
Bright red cherry, sun-dried tomato, black olive, and a firm tannic backbone—savory, lifted, and endlessly complex.

One of the things I love most about wine is its ability to bring people together. To spark conversations, forge new friendships, and rekindle old ones. At its best, wine isn’t just something you drink—it’s something you experience, something that pulls you into a story worth listening to.

So here’s my challenge to you—try something new. Pick a bottle from this list that feels unfamiliar, something outside your comfort zone. Maybe you’ll find a new favorite. Maybe you’ll swear off Chenin Blanc forever. Either way, you’ll have learned something.

And that’s the beauty of it. Because wine, much like spring, is all about new energy, fresh perspectives, and a little bit of adventure.

The same grape that fuels backyard BBQs in America has a more ancient, aristocratic past in Croatia and another wildly ripe, sun-drenched twin in southern Italy. Meet Zinfandel, Primitivo, and Tribidrag—the same grape, three radically different identities.

A grape unlike any other

Before we dive into Zinfandel’s identity crisis, let’s talk about the grape itself—because it’s a bit of a problem child. The berries are notoriously uneven in their ripening, meaning that in any given cluster, some grapes may be underripe while others are bursting with sugar. This presents a challenge for winemakers: pick too early, and you risk green, harsh tannins; wait too long, and you’re looking at sky-high alcohol levels and jammy, overripe fruit. For those aiming to produce a balanced wine, this means careful handling of the berries on the vines—painstakingly tedious work.

Because of this, Zinfandel has long been misunderstood and, frankly, under appreciated. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, some speculated it was a native grape, uniquely American. This, of course, was incorrect—Vitis vinifera, the species responsible for nearly all fine wine, isn’t indigenous to the Americas. But Zin thrived in California’s climate, and for a time, its true origins were a mystery.

Another quirk? Thin skins and tight clusters make it prone to rot, meaning it requires careful vineyard management. And yet, despite these challenges, Zinfandel has persisted—reinventing itself time and time again, adapting to different soils, climates, and winemaking philosophies.

So how did it go from an obscure European grape to California’s most famous red? The journey starts in Croatia.

Tribidrag: The forgotten king of the Adriatic

Before Zinfandel became an American icon, before Primitivo found its fame in Italy, there was Tribidrag, the ancient Croatian ancestor of them all. Its name, first documented in the 15th century, hints at its nature—'drag' comes from an old Slavic word meaning ‘early,’ referring to its tendency to ripen faster than its peers.

In its heyday, Tribidrag was a noble grape, enjoyed by aristocrats and written about in historical documents as far back as the Venetian Republic. But history wasn’t kind. War, phylloxera, and shifting wine trends pushed Tribidrag to the edge of extinction. Phylloxera, for the uninitiated, is the microscopic root louse that wiped out most of Europe’s vineyards in the late 19th century, forcing winemakers to regraft vines onto disease-resistant American rootstock. While some grapes bounced back, Tribidrag was nearly lost—kept alive only by a handful of vineyards along Croatia’s Dalmatian coast.

Then came the bombshell discovery: Zinfandel was not an American original—it was Tribidrag all along. In the 1990s, DNA profiling confirmed that California’s beloved Zin and Italy’s Primitivo were actually the long-lost offspring of this nearly extinct Croatian grape.

But here’s the kicker—Tribidrag doesn’t taste like either of them.

Terroir & style

Croatia’s Dalmatian coast is a brutal place to grow vines. The soils are rocky, the climate is harsh, and the vineyards cling to steep slopes overlooking the Adriatic. But struggle makes for complexity. Where Zinfandel leans into plushness, and Primitivo into ripeness, Tribidrag is more structured, more mineral-driven, more serious.

Flavors: Dark berries, dried fig, Mediterranean herbs, black pepper, and an unmistakable salty edge that tastes like the sea breeze itself.

Bottles to try:

• Miloš Plavac Pelješac Peninsula Croatia – Earthy and structured, with a mineral backbone

• Saints Hills 'Black' Crljenak – A full-bodied, serious take on Croatia’s native Zinfandel

• Bibich Bas de Bas Crljenak Kaštelanski – A rare, elegant version with aging potential

Primitivo: The sun-drenched, ripe & reckless twin

If Tribidrag is the old soul, then Primitivo is the Italian diva—you can sense its gravitas the moment it’s poured into a glass.

Brought to Puglia in the 18th century, it quickly became a local favorite. The name “Primitivo”—once again—refers to its tendency to ripen early—a lifesaver in the hot, dry vineyards of southern Italy. Puglia, located in the heel of Italy’s boot, is famous for its rolling hills, whitewashed villages, and some of the most stunning beaches in Europe. This region doesn’t do “delicate.” Wines here are bold, ripe, sun-drenched, and unapologetically generous.

Terroir & style

Puglia’s climate is intense: long, sunbaked summers, low rainfall, and cooling Adriatic breezes. This means Primitivo wines develop ultra-ripe fruit flavors, plush textures, and higher alcohol.

But not all Primitivo is created equal. While some producers chase sheer power, others focus on balance, letting acidity and structure shine through. The best examples combine ripeness with freshness—big and velvety, but never flabby.

Flavors: Black cherry, plum jam, cocoa, baking spices, and a touch of Mediterranean wildness.

Bottles to try:

• Masseria Li Veli "Orion" Primitivo – A lush, fruit-forward example of classic Primitivo

• Fatalone Primitivo Gioia del Colle – A more structured, elegant style, proving Primitivo isn’t just about power

• Polvanera 17 Primitivo – A high-altitude take, showing surprising freshness and grip

Zinfandel: The Wild West rebel that won’t be tamed

And then we come to Zinfandel—the cowboy, the risk-taker, the American original (even though we now know it’s not).

While there continues to be much debate as to how the grape made its way to the West Coast, it’s believed to have been brought to California in the mid-1800s, and Zinfandel exploded during the Gold Rush. Miners and settlers fell in love with its bold flavors and easy-drinking nature. It became California’s wine—the backbone of old-vine field blends and, later, one of the most recognizable names in American viticulture. But, like California itself, the wine has experienced its own ups and downs. Prohibition nearly brought it to its demise, though some vineyards were maintained to produce sacramental wine for the church.

It’s been everything from a rustic field wine to a sweet, blush-colored abomination (looking at you, White Zinfandel). Then came the 1990s, when big, boozy, high-alcohol Zins became cult favorites. But today? We’re seeing a new wave—one that respects balance, structure, and terroir.

Terroir & style

California is vast, and Zin expresses itself differently depending on where it’s grown:

• Sonoma & Napa: More structured, age-worthy, with spice and elegance

• Lodi: Ripe, fruit-driven, full-throttle Zin

• Paso Robles: Bold, juicy, sometimes downright hedonistic

Flavors: Blackberry jam, cracked pepper, tobacco, and vanilla from oak aging.

Bottles to try:

• Bedrock Wine Co. Old Vine Zinfandel – A serious, terroir-driven take on Zin

• Sandlands Zinfandel – A cult favorite, leaner, fresher, and redefining what Zin can be

• Ridge Geyserville – One of the most elegant, age-worthy Zinfandels on the market

Final showdown

Zinfandel has never played by the rules. It’s been a noble wine, a working man’s drink, a cult classic, and a misunderstood misfit. It’s thrived in unexpected places, endured near-extinction, and reinvented itself at every turn. If there’s one thing this grape refuses to be, it’s predictable.

And maybe that’s the real magic of Zinfandel—of Tribidrag, of Primitivo. It doesn’t belong to just one place, one identity, or one style. It’s a survivor, a frontier traveler, a shape-shifter in a bottle.

So, where do you begin? That depends on what kind of drinker you are. Want history in a glass? Start with a rugged, sea-kissed Croatian Tribidrag. Looking for sun-drenched, bold, and effortless charm? Primitivo’s got you covered. Craving pure American power? Zinfandel is calling.

But here’s the real question—who wore it best? The only way to know is to pour a glass and decide for yourself.

But here’s the thing: wine doesn’t have to be intimidating. You don’t need a degree in French viticulture or a superior palate to enjoy a great bottle. You just need a little curiosity, a decent glass, and the guts to drink outside your comfort zone.

So if you want to actually learn about wine—without feeling like you need to start dressing in tweed and carrying a pocket-sized Oxford Companion—this guide is for you. No gatekeeping, no snobbery, just practical steps to start drinking better and knowing what’s in your glass.

Let’s dive in.

Just drink the damn wine

Look, you’re not going to learn about wine by drinking the same thing over and over. The fastest way to get better at wine is to drink widely. That means breaking out of your comfort zone.

Most people think they have a type—maybe you always reach for New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, or you're a die-hard Napa Cab drinker. That’s fine. But if you never stray from your usual, you’ll never understand wine—you’ll just know a handful of wines you like.

Try this experiment:

Next time you’re at a restaurant or wine shop, don’t order your go-to. Instead, challenge yourself to try something totally different.

• Love Chardonnay? Try Chenin Blanc from the Loire or Assyrtiko from Santorini.

• Always go for Pinot Noir? Check out Spätburgunder (German Pinot) or Mencia from Spain.

• Ride-or-die for Malbec? Pick up a Touriga Nacional from Portugal or Tannat from Uruguay.

Or, if you’re feeling bold: go to a wine shop and ask if there’s anything interesting they’d recommend. No Googling. No Vivino notes. Worst case, you hate it and learn something. Best case, you find a new favorite. Either way, you win.

Become a regular at your local wine shop

Supermarkets are great for a lot of things. Wine isn’t one of them.

Here’s why: grocery store wine is mostly mass-produced, focus-grouped, and made to taste the same every year. That’s why the $10 Cab you bought in 2022 tastes exactly like the one you bought last week. There’s nothing wrong with that—but if you actually want to learn about wine, you need to drink wines that have character. And you won’t find those in a supermarket aisle.

Instead, find a real wine shop—one where the staff actually cares about what they’re selling. A good wine merchant will do more than just ring up your bottle; they’ll guide you, challenge you, and introduce you to wines you’d never pick on your own.

How to Spot a Great Wine Shop:

• The staff wants to talk to you about wine. They don’t just push the most expensive bottle; they ask questions.

• The selection is curated, not overwhelming—no endless shelves of the same bulk brands.

• They carry wines from interesting regions, not just Napa, Bordeaux, and Tuscany.

Not sure what to say? Try something along the lines of:

“I usually drink X, but I want to try something different. What do you recommend?”

Then trust them. Take the risk. That’s how you learn.

Read just enough to sound like you know things

You don’t need to become a walking encyclopedia, but a good wine book can make the whole learning process way more fun. Here’s what’s worth reading:

Beginner-Friendly:

📖 Wine Simple (Aldo Sohm) – Straightforward, fun, and easy to understand.
📖 Wine Folly: Magnum Edition – Infographics, maps, and everything broken down visually.

For the Enthusiasts:

📖 Who's Afraid of Romanée-Conti? (Dan Keeling) – A sharp, witty dive into wine culture that demystifies the world of fine wine with a healthy dose of humor.
📖 The Sommelier’s Atlas of Taste – Deep dive into terroir and classic wine regions.

For the Hardcore Nerds:

📖 The Oxford Companion to Wine – The ultimate reference book (aka, a wine bible).
📖 One Thousand Vines: A New Way to Understand Wine (Pascaline Lepeltier) – A fresh approach to learning wine through structure, grapes, and place, instead of memorizing random facts.

Don’t want to commit to a full book? Follow great wine writers. (And, obviously, subscribe to Far Ouest.)

Subscribe now

Go to tastings

The best way to train your palate is to taste wines side by side. That’s where tastings come in.

You don’t have to plan an annual trip to Bordeaux or Napa to taste good wine. Most decent wine shops host tastings, and these are goldmines for learning. You’ll start to notice differences between grape varieties, regions, and styles—and best of all, you get to try before you buy.

Tasting Tips:

• You don’t have to spit, but you also don’t have to finish every pour. (Pace yourself.)

• It’s fine if you don’t taste “wild strawberries and crushed violets.” Just figure out what you like and why. Ask questions.

• The people pouring usually love talking about wine (and need a break from that one guy monologuing about malolactic conversion).

Check your local shop’s website or Instagram—there’s probably a tasting happening soon.

Want to get serious? Take a class

If you’ve made it this far and you’re thinking, okay, I really want to learn more, you might consider formal education.

There are two major paths:

WSET (Wine & Spirit Education Trust) – Great for structured learning. If you like a methodical, global approach, this is for you. (I’m WSET-certified.)
Court of Master Sommeliers (CMS) – More service-focused. If you dream of being a sommelier, this is the route.

Do you need a wine certification?

No. Some of the best wine people I know don’t have a single certification. But if you like structured learning, it can be a great way to sharpen your skills.

Learning about wine is a lifelong journey

Here’s the thing: you’ll never know everything about wine. The more that I learn, the more I realize how much more there is to learn. Even the best sommeliers are still learning. That’s what makes it fun.

So don’t stress about getting everything right. Just drink, taste, ask questions, and keep exploring.

And if you want an easy way to stay in the loop, subscribe to Far Ouest—I promise to keep it fun.

What do you wish you knew when you first got into wine? Drop a comment—I want to hear it.

This isn’t a city with a singular wine identity. There’s no overarching ethos, no Napa-style uniformity. New York is a frontier in the truest sense of the word—a constant state of discovery, where every turn offers something new and unexpected. It’s as easy to find a glass of old-school Bordeaux in an unmarked bar as it is to stumble into a place that only serves pét-nat from winemakers you’ve never heard of.

I’m no expert on this city’s wine scene. I’m still finding my way through it. But what I do know is wine, and these are the places I’d send anyone who wants to drink well in New York.

St Jardim (West Village)

Some places feel like they belong in another city. St Jardim feels like it belongs everywhere and nowhere at once—a tiny West Village bar that could just as easily exist on a backstreet in Paris or Lisbon, yet feels unmistakably New York. In the summer, it spills onto the sidewalk, blurring the lines between inside and out, turning the street into an impromptu wine terrace. The list leans natural, and yes, some of it skews funky, but if you know what you’re looking for, there are real gems to be found here. The kind of spot where a quick pre-dinner glass turns into two, then three, then a whole night you didn’t see coming.

The Four Horsemen (Brooklyn)

A Michelin star. A wine list that sommeliers geek out over. And an owner who happens to be a member of LCD Soundsystem. The Four Horsemen is the rare kind of place that’s deeply respected but never takes itself too seriously. The food is so much better than it has any right to be, the wines are expertly chosen, and if you don’t have a reservation? Show up before opening—they keep some space for walk-ins.

With Others (Brooklyn)

With Others is the wine bar equivalent of a well-kept secret. The list is deeply personal, the space is intimate, and there’s an attention to detail that makes every glass feel like a discovery. They also bring in rotating guest chefs,making it just as much a place to eat as it is to drink. And if you’re eager to dive deeper into wine, they offer regular classes that actually feel worth taking.

Chambers (Tribeca)

Chambers isn’t for casual wine drinkers. It’s for the people who drink with purpose. The kind of place where you can find back-vintage Napa, rare Burgundy, and deep cuts from the Rhône Valley—wines that make collectors weak in the knees. The staff here doesn’t waste time with gimmicks. They just pour you something incredible and let you figure it out for yourself.

Parcelle (Greenwich Village & Chinatown)

Parcelle isn’t just one of the best places to drink wine in NYC—it’s also one of the best places to buy it. Their online store is a goldmine, offering a sharp, well-curated selection that makes it dangerously easy to stock your home cellar. Whether you’re visiting their Greenwich Village location for a long night of drinking and snacking or heading to their sexy Chinatown outpost for a date-night bottle, Parcelle gets it right every time. And if you’re not in NYC? Their online shop means you can still drink like you are.

Stafili (West Village)

Stafili is the kind of place you stumble across and immediately feel like you’ve struck gold. A cozy, candlelit wine café tucked into the West Village, it specializes in Greek wines, offering a lineup that’s as exciting as it is unexpected. Whether you’re sipping a zippy, sun-drenched Assyrtiko or discovering a bold, structured Xinomavro, every glass feels like a little revelation. If you’re not already obsessed with Greek wine, you will be by the time you leave.

Somm Time (Midtown East)

Some places fly under the radar, and some places prefer to stay there. Somm Time is the latter. A quiet, low-key bar run by an actual sommelier, it’s one of the best spots in the city to drink properly aged wines by the glass. No hype, no scene—just a small space where the wine is the only thing that matters.

Aldo Sohm Wine Bar (Midtown)

Wine Simple was the first book that made me feel like I could break out of my comfort zone with wine. It’s approachable, no-nonsense, and deeply knowledgeable—the same could be said for Aldo Sohm’s namesake bar in Midtown. The by-the-glass list is always dialed in, and if you’re lucky, Aldo himself might be the one pouring your wine. Stick around until after 9PM, when they open a special magnum and serve it by the glass—it’s the closest thing to drinking like a collector without actually being one.

One White Street (Tribeca)

One White Street is a restaurant, sure. But the wine program is so good it deserves a place on this list. It’s one of the few places where you can drink world-class wine without the stiffness that usually comes with it. If you want to go all in on pairing wine with an incredible meal, this is the move.

La Compagnie des Vins Surnaturels (Nolita)

Some places just get it right. La Compagnie is effortlessly stylish, impeccably curated, and exactly where you want to drink. The list is stacked—Burgundy, grower Champagne, Jura—every bottle chosen with intention. The sommeliers? Sharp, unpretentious, and actually helpful. And the food? Somehow every bite as dialed-in as the wine. It’s the full package—great wine, great food, great energy—all without trying too hard.

The Last Glass

New York is the best city in America to drink wine. Not because of its trends, or its influence, or its cult-status wine bars—but because it’s a frontier in the truest sense. Every turn offers something unexpected. One night, you’ll find yourself drinking old Rioja in a Midtown bar you’ve never heard of. The next, you’ll be sipping grower Champagne on a Brooklyn sidewalk.

It’s a bang-or-bust town, and that applies to wine, too. You might stumble into the best glass of your life—or something you immediately regret. But that’s the fun of it. New York never stops moving. Never stops changing. And no matter what, there’s always another glass waiting for you somewhere around the corner.

Got a favorite NYC wine bar I missed? Convince me. I’ll be back soon.

I know that’s a hard pill to swallow for certain stick-n-poked evangelists preaching the gospel of natural wine, but it needs to be said. Not everything fermented in a basement by a guy wearing a beanie is a revelation.

And yet, if you walk into certain wine bars—the kind with dim lighting, exposed brick, and a “sommelier” who looks like they moonlight as a DJ—you’ll find orange wine treated like some kind of holy sacrament. These are the places where the funkier, the better is the guiding principle, where wines that smell like wet hay and taste like a failed science experiment are described as “energetic” or “expressive.”

Let me be clear: if your wine’s main flavor profile is sun-baked kombucha and a heady dose of Brett, fuck off.

Wine should not taste like a barnyard floor after a heatwave. It should not have the same aroma profile as an unwashed wool sweater. It should not make you wonder whether you accidentally poured yourself a glass of vinegar. If that’s what you’re drinking, I have bad news—you’re not a bold adventurer on the frontier of taste. You’ve just been conned.

But here’s the thing—when orange wine is done right, it’s extraordinary. The best bottles aren’t murky, sour, or volatile just for the sake of it. They’re deep, structured, and complex, with layers of dried apricots, citrus oil, warm spice, and just enough tannin to make them wildly food-friendly.

If you’ve only had the bad stuff, then you haven’t actually had orange wine.

I had to learn that lesson the hard way.

Far From a Fad

A while back, I was at a restaurant in Copenhagen when I found myself trapped in a wine pairing full of orange wines.

I say trapped because, at the time, I wasn’t exactly a fan. Nearly every orange wine I’d had up until that point was either aggressively funky or flat and lifeless—basically, a liquid trust fall that never ended well.

So when I found out that most of the wines in the pairing were orange, I was... skeptical. Annoyed, even. It was the dead of winter, and all I wanted was a glass of something big, warming, and familiar—not a lineup of skin-contact curiosities.

And then I took my first sip.

Everything I thought I knew about orange wine was wrong.

One of the most memorable wines was a Danish orange made from Solaris, a grape I barely knew existed. It was bright and textured—nothing like the soupy messes I’d sworn off before. Another was a skin-contact Pinot Grigio with the kind of depth and grip I usually associate with great red wines. Glass after glass, my skepticism cracked a little more.

By the end of the night, I was completely won over. The wines weren’t gimmicks. They weren’t hiding behind flaws or trying to be cool. They were just damn good.

That’s the thing about wine. The best bottles challenge you. They make you rethink what you thought you knew. They take you places you didn’t expect to go.

A New Wave, a Storied Past

People love to call orange wine a trend. Something hip. Something new.

That’s bullshit—borderline sacreligious. Orange wine is one of the oldest ways of making wine in human history.

Over 6,000 years ago, winemakers in Georgia (the country, not the state) were already making orange wine—long before Burgundy, Bordeaux, or Napa existed, before the Romans planted their first vine, before anyone had ever uttered the words grand cru.

The Georgians didn’t have stainless steel or oak barrels. What they had were qvevri—massive clay vessels buried underground, where grapes (skins, stems, and all) would ferment naturally. They’d leave the wine in there for months, even years, pulling color, tannin, and texture out of the skins. The result? Deep, structured, age-worthy wines that were nothing like the thin, pale whites of today.

For most of history, this was how white wine was made—on its skins. The idea of stripping a white grape of its texture and tannin was a much later invention.

Then industrialization happened.

By the 20th century, white wines had to be crisp, pale, and easy-drinking—so winemakers stopped fermenting on the skins. Orange wine vanished, except in places where tradition refused to die.

Fast forward to today, and orange wine is back. Not because of trend-chasing, but because some winemakers never stopped believing in its power.

Where to Get the Best Orange Wines

Georgia 🇬🇪

• Signature Grapes: Rkatsiteli, Mtsvane

• What to Expect: Bold tannins, nutty aromatics, structured wines fermented in qvevri

Italy 🇮🇹 (Friuli-Venezia Giulia, Tuscany, Trentino-Alto Adige)

• Signature Grapes: Ribolla Gialla, Malvasia, Pinot Grigio

• What to Expect: Long maceration times, amphora aging, incredibly complex and age-worthy wines

Slovenia 🇸🇮

• Signature Grapes: Rebula (Ribolla Gialla), Malvasia

• What to Expect: A balance of structure and elegance, often similar to Friuli but with a wilder edge

France 🇫🇷 (Roussillon, Provence, Alsace)

• Signature Grapes: Grenache Blanc, Macabeo, Gewürztraminer

• What to Expect: A more Mediterranean expression—textured but fresh

Denmark 🇩🇰 (Yes, Really)

• Signature Grapes: Solaris

• What to Expect: Bright acidity, citrus-driven, clean but textural

A Few of My Favorite Bottles

📍 For the Skeptics ($30 and under)

• Chona’s Marani Mtsvane (Georgia) – Bold, aromatic, beautifully structured

• Pheasant’s Tears Rkatsiteli (Georgia) – A clean, structured qvevri wine

📍 For the Converts ($75 and under)

• Foradori ‘Fuoripista’ Pinot Grigio (Trentino-Alto Adige, Italy) – The wine that really convinced me

• Radikon ‘Slatnik’ (Friuli, Italy) – Citrus oil, almonds, light grip

📍 For the True Believers

• Gravner ‘Breg Anfora’ (Friuli, Italy) – The godfather of skin-contact wine

• Domaine Gauby ‘La Roque Blanc’ (Roussillon, France) – Refined but deeply compelling

  

Final Thought: Drink It Because It’s Good, Not Because It’s Cool

If you’ve read this far, then hopefully you’re down to give orange wine another chance. And for that, I respect you.

So here’s my challenge: go find a good one.

Push your boundaries. Step outside your comfort zone. Explore the frontier. You never know—on the other side, you might just find something better than you ever knew existed. 

And if you still hate orange wine?

No hard feelings.

More for me.

But here’s the thing: it’s not summer.

Right now, the Northern Hemisphere is firmly in the clutches of winter. It’s stew season. Red wine season. The time of year when a pale, delicate rosé feels about as useful as a paper umbrella in a thunderstorm. And yet, I just drank a rosé that didn’t just work in winter—it thrived in it.

Enter Tavel.

Tavel is what happens when rosé decides it’s done being delicate. It’s got guts. It’s structured, it’s deep, it’s unapologetically bold. If your usual rosé is a whisper, Tavel is a damn shout. This isn’t some fleeting, fruit-forward pink drink—it’s a Rhône Valley heavyweight with a history that goes back centuries, loved by popes, kings, and people who don’t have time for nonsense.

And if you’ve never had it, you’ve been missing out.

A Tiny Powerhouse with a Royal Pedigree

Tavel isn’t just any rosé—it’s the pioneer. The only AOC (Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée, or official appellation—not to be confused with the politician) in France that produces exclusively rosé, Tavel has been doing things its own way for centuries. This tiny region, tucked into the Southern Rhône Valley just west of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, is barely a blip on the wine map. We’re talking super small production—about 1,000 hectares, a fraction of what Provence churns out. Blink, and you might miss it. But what Tavel lacks in size, it more than makes up for in attitude.

This is a wine with history, clout, and a serious chip on its shoulder. Back in the 14th century, when the Popes were holding court in Avignon (about 10 miles away), Tavel was already making waves. It was a favorite of Pope Innocent VI, who, like any self-respecting medieval leader, understood the importance of good wine. The French aristocracy caught on, and soon, Tavel was crowned the “rosé of kings.”

Even literary heavyweights like Balzac and Hemingway sang its praises. When Hemingway wasn’t busy hunting in Spain or slamming daiquiris in Havana, he was reportedly sipping Tavel—a rosé with enough backbone to match the man’s infamous appetite for excess.

But despite its regal and literary pedigree, Tavel never went mainstream. It doesn’t fit into the crisp, delicate rosé mold that Provence has turned into a global cash cow. It refuses to be pale, refuses to be light, and refuses to be typecast as a "summer wine." Tavel is darker, richer, and built to last—rosé with a rebellious streak.

Why Tavel is Different from Other Rosés

Most rosé is made to be drunk young—fresh, fruity, and forgettable after a year or two. That’s not how Tavel rolls.

• Aging Potential: Unlike Provence rosés, which lose their vibrancy after a year or two, Tavel can age for 5–10 years. As it matures, the bright red fruit deepens into dried cherry, blood orange, and warm spice, and the herbal notes become more pronounced—like a walk through sun-dried Mediterranean scrubland.

• More Depth, More Structure: Tavel ferments with more skin contact than most rosés, meaning the juice spends extra time with the grape skins, extracting more color, texture, and tannin—that’s what gives it a bolder mouthfeel and a hint of grip. If a Provence rosé is a silk scarf, Tavel is a well-worn leather jacket.

• Darker, Richer, More Intense: The extra contact with the skins also explains why Tavel isn’t pale pink—it ranges from deep salmon to ruby red.

What’s in the Bottle? The Grapes of Tavel

Tavel isn’t a one-note wine—it’s a blend, carefully crafted to deliver structure, complexity, and balance. The main grape here is Grenache, the backbone of many Rhône wines, bringing ripe red fruit, body, and warmth. But Tavel doesn’t stop there. Other varieties play a crucial role in shaping its bold personality:

• Cinsault – Adds fresh acidity and bright red berry notes. Keeps the wine from feeling too heavy.

• Syrah & Mourvèdre – These two bring depth, spice, and just a hint of tannic grip, making Tavel feel more like a light red than a delicate rosé.

• Clairette & Picpoul – White grapes? Yep. These add freshness, floral aromatics, and a little lift to keep things in balance.

The result? A rosé that’s rich, structured, and intense, with both power and elegance—a rare feat in the world of pink wine.

Tasting Notes: What to Expect from a Bottle of Tavel

Color

• Expect deep shades of pink—from intense salmon to nearly ruby-red.

• The longer the juice stays with the skins, the darker and richer the color.

Aromatics

• Bright red fruit—wild strawberries, raspberries, sour cherries.

• Aromatic herbs—thyme, rosemary, lavender.

• Spice—white pepper, anise, a touch of warm baking spice.

Palate

• Fuller-bodied than expected—more like a light red than a delicate rosé.

• Silky at first, but with a grippy, structured mid-palate thanks to the skin contact.

• Bright acidity keeps everything fresh, preventing it from feeling heavy.

Finish

• Long, lingering, and often savory, with notes of dried flowers, crushed herbs, and spice.

• As it warms up slightly, you might even get a touch of dried cherries and orange peel.

What to Eat with Tavel

Tavel isn’t here for your dainty little Niçoise salad—this wine wants a meal.

Meat Lovers’ Paradise

• Grilled lamb chops – The herbal notes in the wine love rosemary and thyme.

• Duck confit – A match made in French bistro heaven.

• Pork tenderloin with a cherry reduction – Because fruit and pork are best friends.

Spice? No Problem.

Tavel has the acidity to cut through spice, making it a killer pairing for:

• Moroccan tagines – The mix of spice, fruit, and richness plays beautifully.

• Thai red curry – Tavel’s fruitiness tempers the heat.

• Indian tandoori chicken – Smoky, spicy, and a perfect match for a bold rosé.

Winter-Proof Rosé

• Cassoulet – The rustic, slow-cooked French classic.

• Mushroom risotto – Earthy, creamy, and just enough umami to balance the wine’s fruit.

• Roasted root vegetables – Carrots, parsnips, beets—Tavel’s acidity brightens up their sweetness.

Producers to Know (And Where to Start)

If you’re ready to try Tavel, here are a few names to look out for:

Classic Tavel:

• Château d’Aqueria – The gold standard for a balanced, structured Tavel. Think wild strawberry, fresh herbs, and a long, mineral finish.

• Domaine de la Mordorée – Their "La Dame Rousse" is a must-try, with layers of dark cherry, spice, and a touch of salinity.

• Prieuré de Montézargues – Elegant, precise, with floral aromatics and a bright, lifted profile.

• Domaine Maby – More powerful, deeper-hued, with a richer, almost red-wine-like mouthfeel.

If You Can Find It:

• Domaine de l’Anglore – This is my personal favorite. Founded by Eric Pfifferling, L’Anglore makes Tavel in a way that defies every expectation: no heavy-handed extraction, no excess tannin, just a pure, electric expression of the land, all made with whole-cluster fermentation and zero additives. Drinking L’Anglore is like getting smacked with a bouquet of wild strawberries and thyme, then sinking into a texture that somehow manages to be both grippy and silky. It’s the kind of bottle that makes you stop mid-sip and reassess everything you thought you knew about rosé.

Where to Buy & Final Thoughts

Tavel isn’t always easy to find, but it’s worth the hunt. Check:

• Local wine shops – Look for Rhône-focused selections.

• Online retailers – Places like K&L, Wine.com, and smaller specialty sites often stock Tavel.

• Importers – If you spot a bottle brought in by Kermit Lynch or Rosenthal, grab it.

Tavel is the anti-Provence—a rosé that drinks like a red, ages like a fine wine, and refuses to be boxed into seasonal drinking. It’s gutsy, historic, and completely unapologetic. And now that I’ve had my first taste, I know it won’t be my last.

So, are you ready to rethink rosé? If so, saddle up and track down a bottle. You won’t regret it.

Wine was always on the table when I was growing up, though I wasn’t the one holding the glass. I’d watch the adults sip and swirl, convinced they knew something I didn’t, while I was left with a glass of Martinelli’s cider and a nagging curiosity. Wine felt like something distant, something I wasn’t part of. Let’s just say I’ve been making up for lost time. What started as casual interest became a full-blown love affair. Not just with wine, but with the people and places behind it. It became a way of seeing the world, of understanding its stories. A frontier, open and endless.

I know something about frontiers. I grew up in a small desert town in the Far West. Big skies. Open roads. The occasional tumbleweed. But frontier means more than landscape. My grandmother was a Creole French-speaking immigrant from the Seychelles. She landed in a place about as far from her lush, tropical homeland as a person could get. She brought with her a love of food, of wine, of bringing folks together. She adapted. She made a life of it. She told stories about her own Far Ouest. And she taught me that a frontier isn’t just a place. It’s a state of mind. It’s stepping into the unknown and making something of it. And sometimes, it’s figuring out what kind of wine pairs best with a dust devil.

That’s what Far Ouest is about—exploring the frontiers of fine wine. Pushing beyond the familiar. Finding new regions, new styles, new stories. I’m not here to be an expert. Lord knows I’m not that. I’m here as an explorer, just as eager to learn as you are. Maybe it’s diving into dry sherries. Maybe it’s debating the virtues of cork versus screw cap. Whatever it is, I’ll share it with you.

My own journey with wine hasn’t been a straight road. Like any frontier, it has taken me across continents, through countless bottles, each one offering something new. I grew up in California, where vineyards rolled over the landscape, but it wasn’t until I lived abroad that I understood what wine could be. In Germany, I found Rieslings so sharp and bright they could cut glass. In London, I studied wine formally for the first time. In between, I drank and learned, and my frontier kept expanding. Wine became more than a drink. It became a bridge—between people, between cultures, between past and present.

So why now? Why start this journey when the wine industry seems to be fighting uphill? Sales down. Climate change. Neo-Prohibitionists wagging their fingers. But I don’t believe wine is going anywhere. The industry is reckoning with itself. Change is coming. And I believe wine has a future. But that’s a story for another day.

Right now, here’s what I know: People are lonelier than ever. Social media—filters, followers, all of it—hasn’t made us more connected. But wine? Wine brings people together. It always has. It’s a social lubricant, sure, but more than that, it’s glue. It holds conversations together, keeps meals lingering a little longer, turns strangers into friends. And while I’m not saying we should all drink like it’s Prohibition Eve, there’s something to be said for slowing down, savoring the moment, indulging in life’s small pleasures.

Wine is more than a drink. It’s history, culture, land, labor. Every bottle tells a story—of who made it, where it came from, what came before it. It’s science and art, hardship and joy, all poured into a single glass.

I won’t pretend to know it all. My wine studies have taught me just enough to realize how much I don’t know. And I’m fine with that. Wine is vast, changing, alive. I’m still finding my way through it. If you want a sommelier who knows every vintage by heart, I’m not your guy. But if you want a fellow explorer, someone who’s curious, someone who will sometimes get it wrong and laugh about it, then you’re in the right place.

To those of you joining me on this ride—thank you. Whether you’re a seasoned wine drinker, a curious beginner, or just here for the stories, I’m glad to have you here. Let’s stumble our way through this frontier of fine wine together—glass in hand, ready for whatever’s next.

So grab a glass of something you love, and let’s get started.

Cheers!