Not too long ago, a long-overdue catch-up with a good friend brought me to a small wine bar I hadn’t been to before. I arrived a few minutes early, grabbed a seat, and took a moment to take in my surroundings. Ahead of me stood an oversized wooden bookshelf showcasing wines from every corner of the earth. To the left, a tiny kitchen turning out small bites from thoughtfully sourced local ingredients. Behind me, a wall that looked like a field of bright, colorful flowers. Nothing about it was extraordinary, exactly, yet the feeling in the room — a deep appreciation for wine — was overwhelming. This was my kind of establishment.
I’ve often thought about where my passion for wine comes from but never actually put it into words until now. To some, wine represents an elitist culture. I’ve felt quite the opposite the more I’ve explored it over the years. It can be a complex subject, sure, but it’s also incredibly approachable, because of its undeniable human elements.
Opening a bottle of wine is a chance to connect the past to the present.
Every bottle carries a story, waiting for someone who actually wants to hear it. Stories of long, laborious days and rich tradition, producing something consistent across generations. Stories of vines devastated by nature, or by war, and somehow brought back. Stories of entrepreneurs who broke the bank — and sometimes tradition itself — just to share what they loved with the world. Stories of travel, and how a place’s geography shapes everything from its economy to its cuisine. All of that, and more, is sitting in the glass in front of you. That’s a genuinely profound thing to hold in one hand.
Let me leave you with a story of my own.
A few years ago, I went looking for why I felt this deep a connection to wine in the first place. I remembered my grandmother telling me about a trip to Switzerland, where she’d visited her grandfather’s grave and met distant relatives in a small town called Pfaffnau. The communication between them was broken at best, but she came home having learned more about our family history than she expected to. I called her to get the full story.
She pulled out her notes. Her grandfather, she told me, had been a dairy farmer — the small farmhouse he lived in is still in the family today. She traced our lineage back to the early 1600s. Our ancestors were coopers. Barrel makers. To this day, locals in Pfaffnau still refer to the family as “cooper sepps.”
I lit up. This felt like no coincidence. I still haven’t confirmed exactly what kind of barrels they made for all those centuries, but I’d bet good money wine was aged in a few of them — or so I tell myself.
That’s still what I’m chasing, whether I’m the one opening the bottle or the one setting the table. Every glass has a story sitting inside it. Most days, my whole job is just making sure someone else notices.