You don’t get to pick your relatives. You do get to pick the people you keep going back to, and mine are scattered across a jury room in Berlin twice a year. Beautiful, slightly unhinged, and they put up with me.

This was the 30th edition. Same venue as last winter, minus the winter novelty of not knowing where the coffee was. What actually changed was something else.

The numbers

4,200 samples. 23 panels. Fewer than usual — and, if I’m honest, fewer at every competition I’ve judged lately. That isn’t a coincidence or a crisis. It’s the market settling: producers are choosier about where they send wine, marketing budgets are thinner, and entering a competition has gone from reflex to decision.

It isn’t only about competitions, either. The OIV report published in May puts global consumption at 208 million hectolitres for 2025, down 2.7% on 2024 and the lowest level since 1957. Against 2018, that’s a 14% drop. Nine of the world’s ten largest markets drank less last year. Global vineyard area shrank for the sixth year running. When everything contracts, so does the number of bottles someone decides to put in a box and ship to a jury.

The upside was in the glass immediately. Fewer wines, but noticeably better than in previous editions — the same thing I noticed in winter. Premiumisation has stopped being a slide in someone’s presentation. You can taste it.

The new OIV sheet

And for the first time, we worked on the OIV’s new tasting sheet, for both still and sparkling wines.

Visual aspect: limpidity, colour and nuances, plus effervescence for sparkling. Nose: purity, olfactory intensity, olfactory complexity. Palate, depending on the category: for still wines, purity, intensity of flavours, structure and complexity assessed together, and persistence; for sparkling, effervescence, purity, intensity of flavours, complexity and elegance. Then an overall impression section: balance and harmony, and general appreciation.

A fascinating exercise, and a strange one. With the new sheet in front of me, I genuinely couldn’t remember what the old one looked like. Day one caught us out — it took a while to recalibrate, to pay attention to the sheet rather than to muscle memory. By day three it felt like I’d never scored on anything else.

Worth saying plainly, because this conversation is coming everywhere sooner or later: changing a tasting sheet is not an administrative formality. It moves your attention. It makes you name things you used to bundle into “overall impression”. And a taster who never changes the grid ends up, over time, confirming what they already know.

What I tasted

Alongside France, Italy, Spain and Germany — familiar territory, confirmed rather than discovered — a few things stood out.

2025 was a good year in Luxembourg: Auxerrois, Pinot Blanc, Pinot Gris. Southern France showed up solidly with Syrah and Grenache. The Italian reds, from the north all the way down to Sicily, were fresh, fruity and easy to like. And the German Pinot Gris from the same vintage deserves a mention — Grauburgunder, as they call it here.

The Champagnes did not disappoint. Champagne, from Champagne. No notes.

There were excellent whites from Portugal, mostly Fernão Pires 2023 and 2024 — ageworthy, mineral, faintly saline. Made for smoked cod.

Then the curiosities, which are honestly my favourite part. A mixed flight of Australian and American reds, out of which one Australian blend stood out: 50% Shiraz, 50% Syrah. Yes, really. We assumed it referred to two differently vinified lots, but for anyone reading the back label it stays, let’s say, opaque. A very good Petite Sirah, presented as Durif. Three Grand Golds for what smelled like a Brunello or an older Chianti from 2021. And a finale of sweet wines from Germany, Hungary, Canada and Romania — one style, four countries, the same travelling exercise I’d had earlier with Italy.

Shiraz-Syrah

Something I asked the organisers for

After a panel discussion, I asked whether they could tell us the region at the end of each flight.

It would help all of us learn faster and, more to the point, assess ourselves. When you taste blind, feedback is the only mechanism you have for calibrating your memory. Without it you’re practising, not improving.

And while we’re on learning: my fellow judges were, as ever, the best part. I never get tired of saying that it’s a privilege to trade impressions with people who love the same wines but come at them from angles you hadn’t considered, or hadn’t had time to. You leave richer, and with a clear read on what’s out there, what’s selling and what’s coming.

About tasters from small countries

Four days on an international panel is not tourism. It’s concentration from first thing in the morning, hundreds of samples, a grid you have to apply identically to sample 1 and sample 200, and technical arguments with people trained in schools that aren’t yours. It is, in the most literal sense, continuing professional development.

There were six Romanian tasters at this edition. Five of us are members of ADAR, the national association of authorised tasters.

I mention it because the logic runs both ways: a taster who never leaves home assesses their country’s wine against their country’s wine. And when you’re your own only reference point, every level looks fine.

Berlin, between two tastings

I arrived on Sunday, 2 August, reasonably early, because I’d left at an hour no reasonable person should be awake. Bags at the hotel by midday, then straight out: I had tickets for the Brâncuși exhibition at the Neue Nationalgalerie.

Extraordinary. Over 150 sculptures, photographs, films and archive material, plus a partial reconstruction of his Paris studio — shown outside France for the first time since he left it to the French state in 1957. This isn’t an exhibition you walk past. It’s a workshop you walk into: past a wooden threshold, and there are the saws hanging on the wall, the anvil, the plinths, the marble egg. The tools, not just what came out of them.

I’d seen what was shown in Timișoara during its year as European Capital of Culture. This was on another scale entirely.

The nice irony is that the show was made in cooperation with the Centre Pompidou. I’d meant to get to the Pompidou before it closed for renovation and never managed it. In the end it came to me, in Berlin, a week before the exhibition closed.

After 20,000 steps, one sausage and two beers, I made it back to the hotel for the welcome dinner with colleagues and, by now traditionally, Champagne.

The afternoon off that wasn’t

Monday, 3 August, after the first day of judging, I theoretically had time to myself. I spent it at a masterclass on Austrian wine, run by two colleagues — journalists and wine educators, doing it because they wanted to. No promotional budget behind it. Two people who know a region well and felt like explaining it.

Styria. Sixteen wines, fifteen producers, served in pairs by variety. The region has around 5,000 hectares — roughly 11% of Austria’s vineyard area — and about 1,900 wineries. Do the division and you can see exactly what ownership looks like there: small, very small, almost all of it family.

We opened with two Rieslings from 2023, one off forty-year-old vines, the other off sixty, then two Gelber Muskateller. The rest of the line-up was overwhelmingly Sauvignon Blanc: nine of the sixteen.

And here’s the part worth keeping. Those nine didn’t resemble each other, because they didn’t come off the same ground. Opok is the region’s terroir — the local marl, the base almost everything grows on, and the word I took away from the whole evening. Layered over it: limestone, sandstone, schist, volcanic soils in Vulkanland, sand. A Sauvignon off volcanic ground, eight months in large oak, came out saline. One off sand, on fine lees in stainless steel, was crunchy and far leaner. One off limestone with opok, aged four years including two in wood, was mineral with a flinty edge. Same variety, same region, three wines you couldn’t confuse.

Many were organic or biodynamic. After the nine Sauvignons came a Weissburgunder and a Chardonnay, and the set closed unconventionally: a Souvignier Gris — a PIWI, a disease-resistant crossing — and an unfiltered natural wine with no added sulphur, two years in 500-litre barrels.

My favourites were two 2021s. One off forty-year-old vines, biodynamic, thirty months in neutral barrels: apricot, mushroom, a peppery finish. The other off sandy soils, grapefruit, with a crunch to it. Both at 40 euros, which brings me to the last thing I want to say about that evening: the wines ran from 12 to 65 euros.

A 5,000-hectare region sells Sauvignon Blanc at 65 euros a bottle. Not because its story is better than anyone else’s, but because it has named sites, identified soils, and growers who aren’t in a hurry.

That evening, since there was still no official programme, some of us kept the tradition going and went out to dinner. A menu you’d struggle to find even in Germany now: Rollmops, Handkäs with onion and caraway, pickled egg, crackling with dripping. Then Königsberger Klopse in caper sauce, Backhendl with potato salad, Szegediner goulash with bread dumplings. East Prussia, Hesse, Austria and Hungary on a single page — the cooking of a Central Europe that survives mainly in menus.

I had the herring, Nordic style, with yoghurt, apple and parsley potatoes. It was superb.

The programme, restored

This summer marked another first: the return of an organised programme around the competition. After Monday there wasn’t a free window left.

Tuesday’s surprise was a boat trip and a barbecue in the Spreewald — a biosphere reserve southeast of Berlin, in Brandenburg, a network of canals on the upper Spree, all green and quiet. Two bottles found their way onto the table in the boat: a Furmint from Zala, by Dóka Éva, and a Portuguese natural wine, Figurante from Dimas Adega, bottle 654 of 750. We relaxed, and spent the afternoon with people we’re glad to know.

Wednesday was a Georgian evening, thanks to the Georgian wine promotion foundation and to Anna Godabrelidze. Excellent traditional food — spinach and beetroot pkhali, aubergine, tomato salad, walnuts in all of it, as the Georgians do — and local wines: an Aleksandrouli 2023 from Royal Khvanchkara, a Mukuzani 2024 from Vazisubani Estate. Plus, not least, music and dancing.

We danced as much as we possibly could. And because it was the last night for some of us, we stayed on for one more glass while a colleague played guitar, until the awareness that we had work in the morning sent us to bed. Each of us at the pace our conscience allowed.

I stayed an extra day in Berlin, meaning to see something more. I didn’t have the energy. Next time I’ll plan it better.

And that, really, is the best part of an international competition. The tasting finishes at midday. What you learn afterwards isn’t recorded anywhere.

What stays

A city break folded into work, a break from routine, my August holiday, thoroughly enjoyed.

And one thought I brought home. My badge said Diana Pavelescu, Romania. Not the institution, not the association, not the school. My name and my country’s name, one under the other, for four days.

Tennis works the same way. Players travel on their own account, with coaches paid out of their own pockets, and the federation turns up for the photograph at the trophy ceremony. And still, when they win, the country wins. Nobody asks who paid for the flight.

It’s the same with tasters. We go as private individuals and we represent a country, whether or not anyone sent us. Which means the important question isn’t who pays. It’s who goes. Who sits on those panels, what they know, how they taste, and what they say when someone at dinner asks what people drink in Romania. Because we have wines that can hold their own in those flights without apologising for anything — but they don’t speak for themselves.

There were six of us.

Back to Portugal

I said yes to the Portugal Wine Trophy invitation before I’d even finished reading it. Partly because I’d been missing Portugal — I’d only judged here once before, a few years ago in Anadia, in Bairrada. Back then the competition was smaller and stayed put in one place. It has since gone travelling, which means that every edition is a chance to get to know a different Portuguese wine region. The presentation of Trás-os-Montes, held in Berlin, had been so persuasive that I arrived with my expectations already set high — helped along, of course, by our fellow juror Ana Alves, president of the Trás-os-Montes Regional Wine Commission, and by the wines she’d poured.

The journey was the small adventure before the adventure. There are no direct flights from Bucharest to Porto or Lisbon, and the low-cost options turn out to be surprisingly expensive once you add a suitcase, on top of long layovers. Porto was where I needed to be — Lisbon was simply too far to consider. I got lucky with a decent route through Istanbul, and off I went.

An honest aside: judging at competitions doesn’t officially count as professional development, even though evaluating and certifying wine is precisely what we do. So, on paper, I went on a short holiday. It’s also why I didn’t get to see Porto — for the second time, I promised myself I’d stay longer next time. I just have to ration my holiday days carefully, because, well, professional development apparently doesn’t exist.

Chaves, the host town

A few of us found each other at the airport and set off together by minibus toward Trás-os-Montes — the region tucked into Portugal’s northeastern corner, right up against Spain. Chaves was the host town, a little over two hours from Porto.

We reached the hotel without trouble and hurried off to the opening dinner, held up in the citadel, in the courtyard of the medieval fortifications. Narrow lanes, picturesque houses and — as I’d learn later — Roman baths. A mountain town with low temperatures, especially that evening, when a cold wind found its way under our coats. A wind we eventually managed to hold off with a glass of the region’s red.

Trás-os-Montes, a corner less travelled

Before the wines, the region deserves a few words, because without it none of what was in the glass quite makes sense.

Trás-os-Montes spreads across mountains and deep valleys over a wide stretch of land, from Montalegre down to the Mirandese Plateau, through the warm heart of the transmontano country. The scenery shifts from one kilometre to the next: green valleys, old hills under their woods, silvery olive groves, broad vineyards, almond and fruit trees. The climate is demanding — very hot summers, hard winters — with vines planted between 350 and 750 metres, on soils that range from granite to schist. A great many native varieties grow here, and they become all the more expressive in the many century-old vineyards that still survive.

Wine is nothing new in these parts. Production goes back to Roman times, and the proof is quite literally carved into the rock: ancient wine presses cut into stone, scattered across several of the area’s villages. Based on altitude, exposure, climate and soil, the region was divided into three sub-regions for wines carrying the Trás-os-Montes Protected Designation of Origin — Chaves, Valpaços and the Mirandese Plateau — formally recognised in November 2006.

Watching over the authenticity and quality of these wines is the Trás-os-Montes Regional Wine Commission, founded in 1997. It began with a single registered producer. Today there are 118 — a figure that says, better than anything, just how much the region has come back to life.

The other side of the glass

The next day, we got to work. I started the tasting the way I always do, with a mix of excitement and nerves about what was coming. Every competition has its surprises.

The Portugal Wine Trophy is the Iberian counterpart of the Berliner Wine Trophy — an international competition held under OIV patronage, travelling by design, built to put Portugal’s wine regions in the spotlight. What truly impresses here is the sheer range of local varieties. You’ll find wines from old plots where the grapes are interplanted and picked all together — a sort of gemischter satz, as the Austrians would say. And although the focus is Portuguese, the glasses added up to a journey across Europe: the Czech wines, for one, surprised us with their quality.

For three days we took the job seriously, because every wine deserves to be met on its own terms. You don’t compare it. You assess it for what it is, right now, in the glass — with rigour, with professionalism, with respect for the people who made it, and above all with a great deal of attention. The fascinating part is that if the same wine reaches you across two separate flights, you’ll judge it slightly differently each time. Not because the standards move — they stay the same — but because evaluation is subjective, shaped by the order of tasting and by the colleagues beside you. Everyone arrives with their whole self and their own store of knowledge, and that matters enormously. A panel with experience judges differently from one made up of first-timers. Which is exactly why the balance between experience and fresh eyes is so important.

And yes, I awarded a Grand Gold — to a Portuguese red that surprised every one of us in equal measure. Plenty of golds, too, because the wines were, quite simply, extraordinary.

Three cellars, three philosophies

Since the tasting takes place in the mornings, the afternoons were left for the region. Three places, three cellars, three philosophies.

The first, a cooperative — a place with its challenges, with plenty still to do and to redo, which sent me back in time to what I used to find in Romania in the late 1990s. It’s the honest energy of a place still under construction, sleeves rolled up.

At the second stop, Quinta do Salvante, things had clearly moved on. Vines more than a hundred years old, treated with particular respect, chosen specifically for special wines; careful winemaking and skin maceration in lagares — those granite tanks where, traditionally, people would step in and crush the grapes by foot. Today, modern equipment imitates the gesture in order to keep the tradition alive. From here, three special wines: a white from vinhas velhas, old vines; a rosé made in a lagar rupestre; and a red grande reserva carrying the Trás-os-Montes Valpaços designation of origin — something genuinely out of the ordinary.

The last stop, at Sonim, was the cherry on top. A small, charming cellar, a family business run by a local couple who pour passion into everything they do. A handful of hectares — thirteen or so — carefully made wines, local food. Still very much growing, with new spaces under construction, ready to welcome more guests. An eye for detail and an inventive sense of design: a wall of bottles laid down to age, a classic chandelier ringed by flasks turned into light fixtures, a small museum of wine and of the place itself, with the tools and machines of an earlier era.

We were, I’ll admit, rather hungry, and we fell upon the local snacks — including a kind of smoked sausage that was far more than just meat, something I won’t forget. And before the wines, I have to mention the local cheese with a jam reduction, a sort of quince preserve. It knocks you sideways. But back to the wines: a white, a local blend, fresh and full of minerality; a Tinta Amarela 2024, fresh and friendly; then a complex old-vine red I fell for and carried home with me; and, to close, a Touriga Nacional reserva 2020, a real delight.

The town, between thermal baths and the river

On the first day I discovered the wines; on the second, the town. Chaves is small and pretty, set on the riverbank, built around the medieval fortress that watches over the valley from the top of the hill. It dates back to Roman times and is known for its thermal waters, with Roman baths you can see in the museum dedicated to them.

Bridges over the river, old houses, the central park hosting the wine festival — the very reason we were there — and a cheerful community that made us feel welcome. Then we explored the springs. The Roman baths themselves are sealed inside a museum, but the water still flows, and around it there are hydromassage pools, saunas and special showers, a place to unwind that I made full use of. A town full of surprises, where you can quietly spend a low-budget city break, an hour and a half from Porto.

What I’m really looking for when I travel

There are places that are less touristy but full of a charm all their own. That’s usually what I look for when I land in another country: something specific — a dish, a wine, something I couldn’t possibly find anywhere else. Because in the end, that’s what I want, and I suspect many of you do too: a singular experience, with its own spell, the kind that feels as if it were made just for you.

I spent the last evening with the colleagues who’d stayed on — many had left after the third day. We found a restaurant, O Lavrador, where, for 25 euros, we ate every kind of grilled beef, from every important part of the animal, because here meat is the local signature. We paired it, naturally, with a fitting red. In Portugal the wines come mostly from native varieties and blends of them, sometimes interplanted in the vineyard and harvested together — wines of their place, which, as if by some old agreement, always sit right with the food that comes from there.

And perhaps that’s what stays with you from Trás-os-Montes: the thought that every wine deserves to be met on its own terms, in the place where it was born.

Sometimes discovering a wine region requires a plane ticket, winding roads through vineyards and a long weekend somewhere in rural Italy. Other times, it starts with a few bottles delivered to your doorstep and a very well-executed online tasting.

 That’s how I ended up — at least mentally — in Oltrepò Pavese, the hilly region between Lombardy and Emilia-Romagna that few people outside Italy talk about, despite being one of the world’s largest Pinot Noir-growing areas.

The tasting hosted by Torrevilla felt less like a classic winery presentation and more like a liquid invitation to travel. As glasses filled with traditional method sparkling wines, Riesling and Pinot Noir, the people behind the project spoke about limestone soils, dramatic day-night temperature shifts, hillside vineyards and their almost obsessive focus on Pinot Noir.

By the end of it, I wasn’t just curious about the wines — I wanted to see the region itself.

Italy’s Pinot Noir territory nobody talks about

Oltrepò Pavese has an unusual identity for an Italian wine region. While geographically part of Lombardy, its wine culture feels closer to Central Europe than to the stereotypical sun-soaked image of southern Italy.

Locals proudly point out that the region sits on the 45th parallel north — the same latitude as Burgundy, Bordeaux and Oregon wine country — and they firmly believe this is one of the reasons Pinot Noir performs so well here.

And the numbers are impressive. Oltrepò Pavese ranks among the world’s major Pinot Noir territories, while Torrevilla itself is a historic cooperative founded in 1907, currently bringing together around 200 growers across 500 hectares of vineyards.

What makes the project particularly interesting is the level of detail behind it. Together with the University of Milan, the winery spent nearly a decade studying the terroir: soils, altitude, vineyard exposure and climatic conditions were mapped and integrated into a GIS system to better understand which plots perform best for each wine style.

It sounds highly technical — but in the glass, the result is straightforward: wines with clarity, precision and remarkably good value.

Traditional method sparkling wines without Champagne prices

The biggest surprise of the tasting was undoubtedly the sparkling wines.

In recent years, traditional method sparkling wine has increasingly become associated with premium pricing. Champagne prices continue to rise, and even many Italian alternatives now position themselves firmly in the luxury segment.

Oltrepò Pavese still seems to embrace a more refreshing philosophy: wine should remain pleasurable, accessible and easy to open on an ordinary evening.

The first wine we tasted was a non-vintage Brut Metodo Classico made from Pinot Noir. Aromatically, it delivered everything you want from a well-made sparkling wine: delicate red berries, fresh cherries, citrus peel, subtle bread notes and a chalky mineral edge. On the palate it was crisp, energetic and vibrant. Then came the detail that completely changed the perspective: the ex-works price was around €8. Eight euros for a traditional method sparkling wine with secondary fermentation in bottle and extended lees contact. That kind of affordable luxury is becoming increasingly rare.

The Extra Brut that stayed with me

My personal highlight was the 2022 Extra Brut sourced from vineyards in Borgo Priolo, at roughly 300 meters altitude. The mousse was fine and elegant, the wine more restrained and precise than the Brut. Raspberry, cranberry and pink grapefruit notes layered over fresh pastry aromas, all supported by a distinct mineral backbone. It felt polished without becoming overly ambitious — the kind of sparkling wine that works equally well as an aperitif or at the table. And once again, the pricing felt almost surreal in today’s market: approximately €9.5 ex works.

Not surprisingly, the region is now pushing for stronger recognition of its sparkling wine identity through the “Classese” designation, a category intended to define stricter production and ageing standards for local Metodo Classico wines.

Riesling, Pinot Noir and wines that don’t try too hard

The tasting continued with an Italian Riesling that was floral, generous and extremely drinkable: ripe peach, linden blossom and yellow fruit, balanced by freshness and discreet minerality.

Then came the still Pinot Noir — probably the most honest wine of the lineup. Juicy red cherry and sour cherry fruit, soft tannins and a chalky undertone that constantly reminded you of the limestone-heavy soils discussed throughout the presentation.

 What I appreciated most was that it didn’t try to imitate Burgundy. It wasn’t chasing grandeur or complexity at all costs. It simply felt authentic, balanced and genuinely enjoyable to drink.

A region now firmly on my travel list

Perhaps that is exactly what makes Oltrepò Pavese so appealing.

It doesn’t feel overly polished or designed for wine tourism spectacle. There’s no inflated mythology, no impossible pricing and no sense that everything exists purely for Instagram aesthetics.

Instead, there are excellent wines, beautiful vineyard landscapes and a wine culture that still feels grounded in everyday life.

 And if an online tasting can communicate a region’s personality this clearly, chances are the real place is worth the trip.

]]> https://www.dianapavelescu.ro/en/hats-protocol-and-lard/ Sun, 10 May 2026 19:35:59 +0000 https://www.dianapavelescu.ro/?p=3700 May 10, 2026 — Bucharest

A Saturday of complete detachment. Yesterday. Lately I’ve been enjoying the idea of disappearing a little from people, just long enough to recover from one week before stepping into another.

Today I celebrated 160 years since the founding of the Royal House of modern Romania at the Elisabeta Palace, thanks to an invitation from Irina. My first time attending such an event and, naturally, my first real panic attack caused by a dress code.

The invitation stated very clearly: Ladies: afternoon dress and hat

The problem was that all my hats are winter hats, while the only summer one I own worked terribly with the outfit I had in mind. So I ended up at Corina’s atelier and left with a spectacular hat. The kind of object completely unnecessary for real life and absolutely essential for the soul.

It would fit perfectly at Ascot. The only issue is that it’s black and probably slightly too dramatic for a royal reception in May.

I wore the dress I got married in for the second time, along with shoes matching the flowers on it. Perfection was not exactly achieved, but I’ve learned that a large part of elegance comes from how comfortable you are with yourself.

Huge crowd. Brass band. Food and drinks tents everywhere. Mostly wines from Moldova and a single Romanian producer — Domeniul Coroanei Segarcea.

The dress code had been explained very clearly and yet the interpretations remained… creative. A surprising number of improvised hats strategically glued onto headbands. Far too many sunglasses. Elegant dresses paired with Aviator Ray-Bans. Men trapped inside suits at least one size too small, with buttons visibly fighting for survival.

But there were also impeccably dressed people. Colourful, well-balanced outfits carrying that rare kind of elegance that doesn’t ask for attention and therefore receives it naturally.

I especially liked the couples who had coordinated subtly. The rest felt like a very honest fresco of Romanian society: professors, rectors, intelligence people, politicians, civil society and a few guests who looked as though they had found out about the event two hours earlier.

I left relatively early. Enough protocol for one day.

We stopped at ProWine near the stadium for a well-deserved glass of cava and the traditional post-event analysis together with Irina and Oana. Dinamo had a match that evening, so the area was full of gendarmes, but we still managed to sneak our way to the bar, which I consider a personal achievement.

Once home, I sliced myself some lard and onion and opened a bottle of Vinca Riesling 2020 from Villa Vinea.

The perfect pairing after a royal afternoon.

The idea for this journal came to me on my way to yoga, walking my almost daily route down Calea Victoriei. People annoy me sometimes, but the sheer variety of human specimens is too fascinating to make me choose a different street.

Maybe I misinterpret half of what I see. But walking down Calea Victoriei without inventing stories about people would be almost impossible.

On Friday evenings, the sidewalks turn into a social experiment. Terraces take over most of the space and the whole street starts feeling like one very long pub you have to navigate through in a constant slalom between tables, people, and groups walking in perfect horizontal formation before stopping abruptly for absolutely no reason.

Right in front of me was a very young couple. She was holding her purse and, with the same hand, his pinky finger. Just the pinky. I couldn’t decide whether he simply refused to offer more than one finger, or whether he had quietly become an accessory coordinated with the handbag. Either way, it felt like the relationship version of “give them a finger and they’ll take the whole hand.”

For me, walking on Calea Victoriei during the weekend is an actual challenge. I walk fast. The concept of “going for a stroll” is completely foreign to me. I move like someone who always has something better to do than simply exist on the street.

Around me I could hear every language possible. Americans, French people, Israelis — the latter always somewhere around the Radisson and the casino. For reasons I cannot explain, I also noticed ballet flats are back. Which probably means I need to dig mine out from whatever dark corner of the closet they’ve been abandoned in for the last twenty years.

I stop in front of the Max Mara window and imagine what I’d buy if I ever won the lottery. A completely useless financial exercise, yet surprisingly relaxing.

At the Military Circle I turn right onto Regina Elisabeta, and that’s where a different urban sport begins: cyclists aggressively ringing their bells while weaving through pedestrians on an already overcrowded sidewalk.

The city was alive and buzzing. The girls all looked strangely identical: long hair, overfilled lips, the same tense expression, as if their entire future depended on whatever was happening that night.

I remember that feeling perfectly well. Then I remember life went on after every “important night,” no matter how dramatic it all seemed at the time.

There was a queue outside Mayfair 39. I’m not sure whether people were there for the pancakes or for the illusion of a London lifestyle. Main demographic: ages sixteen to thirty and an exhausting amount of enthusiasm.

 Further down, the same chaos outside Gelateria Romana. Queues, noise, people happily eating gelato. For a few seconds I remembered the beer ice cream I had years ago at the Christmas market in Nuremberg.

After surviving the entire urban obstacle course, I finally made it home.

 To a glass of Pinot Noir. My precious.

Rosé remains, without a doubt, the most photogenic wine — but its true charm begins beyond the image.

It is perhaps the most seductive through its versatility: the delicacy and finesse of a white wine, paired with a subtle structure, sometimes surprisingly athletic, reminiscent of reds. A perfect balance between lightness and character.

Spring is only just settling in. The air still carries a gentle chill, yet the light grows warmer, the days longer, and the mind drifts instinctively toward that first glass of rosé enjoyed in the sun.

It is more than a wine — it is a feeling you recognize before you define it.

Calabria. Between Sea, Light and Identity

After four years, I rediscovered Calabria — this time on the Ionian coast, near Cirò. Southern Italy has that rare ability to make you feel instantly at home, even when you are far away. Only the hypnotic shades of the Mediterranean remind you that you are, in fact, somewhere else.

Three days of competition. Three days of focus, refinement and discovery.

More than 55 international tasters from 20 countries evaluated over 1,100 rosé wines from 30 countries. A true snapshot of global trends and stylistic diversity.

For me, this edition also brought a premiere: serving as jury president. An honor and a responsibility I embraced with both joy and respect.

Styles, Identity and Terroir

One of the most fascinating aspects of such tastings is the moment you begin to recognize a wine — its country, sometimes even its region.

France remains the undeniable benchmark. Rosés with delicate, almost ethereal color, yet impeccable elegance and structure. Provence stands apart as a clear reference. Languedoc, Bordeaux or Corsica come close, though often with a slightly more rustic edge.

Italy made a strong impression this year, particularly Abruzzo, with two Grand Gold Medals. One of them — Talmonti Rosé 2025 — was, without exaggeration, one of the revelations of the competition.

And what made this experience even more meaningful for me is that two of the official revelations of the competition were evaluated within my own panel.

The second comes from Romania — Issa Pinot Noir Rosé 2025 — a wine that clearly confirms the direction and growing confidence of Romanian rosé on the international stage.

Romania entered 51 samples and achieved 17 medals — a 33% success rate.
More than a result, this is validation. A presence that can no longer be overlooked.

Rosé, Between Trend and Emotion

It is true — rosé is no longer riding the same consumption wave it enjoyed before the pandemic. Yet it retains its charm. And, more importantly, its relevance.

Because rosé is not just about trends. It is about moments. About light. About atmosphere. About that subtle feeling that summer begins just a little earlier — in a glass.

Competitions like the Concours Mondial de Bruxelles are not only about medals or rankings. They are about direction. About how tastes evolve, how identities take shape, and who dares to step outside the expected.

For me, rosé remains the beginning of every season.
And, each time, a promise.

Since 2014, when I first took part, this competition has been, for me, the definition of consistency. Almost ritual-like, year after year, we would meet in the same place: the hotel at Borsigturm, near Lake Tegel, in a part of Berlin that felt almost provincial—quiet, calm, far removed from the city’s intensity. It was more than just a location. It was a familiar rhythm, a routine, a family. The family remained. But in 2026, for the first time, the setting changed.

The move to Alexanderplatz felt like a subtle disruption to a long-standing tradition. From a nearly contemplative area, we suddenly found ourselves in the heart of the city, within walking distance of Berlin’s major landmarks. A larger hotel, a more generous tasting space, more movement, more energy. We gathered again, but on that first evening we missed the instinct of familiar places. It took time to recalibrate, to find our rhythm again—including one of the most cherished rituals: sharing the wines we each bring from home, among colleagues, friends, and, ultimately, this extended family that defines the BWT jury. Then the four days of judging began.

This year again, I served as team leader for one of the panels—a role I’m well acquainted with, yet one that consistently demands precision and discipline. Beyond the logistics—verifying samples, aligning bottles with the system, ensuring each wine is assessed—the role requires a constant exercise in objectivity. At Berliner Wine Trophy, preference is irrelevant; only quality matters. A wine must be evaluated for what it is, not for whether it aligns with personal taste. Even when it doesn’t.

The overall quality this year made that easier. Faults were notably rare—arguably the lowest I’ve encountered across editions. Each day, around 50 wines guided us through a diverse European landscape and beyond, offering a shared, focused tasting experience within the panel.

Across the four days, several wines stood out at Grand Gold level—wines of precision, balance and clear regional identity. Among them: a German Spätburgunder, a refined Grauburgunder–Weissburgunder blend, a 2019 Champagne, two Argentine Malbecs (2023 and 2017), a Chilean Cabernet–Carmenère blend and a Portuguese Touriga Nacional from 2019. Notably, none were sweet or fortified—categories that often impress immediately. Instead, these were dry wines, defined by structure, complexity and a strong sense of origin.

A particularly compelling flight was formed by the Romanian wines—dry whites. Out of 17 samples, one was returned due to cork taint and replaced with a second bottle, which was ultimately assessed by another panel. The remaining wines performed with confidence: 3 Silver Medals, and all others Gold. Fetească varieties showed clarity, balance and expressive character, while a Tămâioasă Românească came remarkably close to Grand Gold level. Careful not to appear biased, I found that my fellow judges were, in fact, even more generous in their scoring—an encouraging signal that Romania’s indigenous varieties are gaining well-deserved recognition and should sit at the core of a coherent promotion strategy.

On a broader level, the 2024 vintage in Europe appears challenging. The impact of climate change is increasingly visible: wines remain correct and typologically accurate, yet occasionally with a more restrained aromatic profile. In contrast, early impressions from 2025 suggest greater freshness and accessibility. Another notable shift: fewer rosé wines than in previous years—perhaps a sign of a softening trend—alongside a strong presence of Pinot Noir in multiple expressions. The direction seems clear: a growing preference for lighter, fruit-driven reds, with minimal oak influence.

Beyond the competition itself, the experience was enhanced by something simple: the weather. Warm temperatures allowed us to begin with a beer on a terrace just next to the hotel—one of the small but meaningful advantages of the new location. And the real surprise came on a Tuesday evening, when, without expectations, we discovered live music and found ourselves in one of the most memorable moments of this edition.

Because, in the end, Berliner Wine Trophy is not just about wine. It is about people, encounters, shared experiences—and that rare sense that, wherever it moves, the family remains the same. And sometimes, change simply confirms it.

Whenever things do not go as they should, the search for someone to blame begins. Producers did not mobilize in time. Authorities delayed procedures. Tenders were launched too late. Budgets are annual. Deadlines are strict. Each argument contains a measure of truth. And yet, if we look more closely, the problem is never purely administrative. The real issue is that we fail to function together.

Export is not an exercise in individual pride, nor is it a short sprint. It is a long-term construction. It requires consistency, trust, and collective accountability. Instead, in our sector, there is always someone convinced they can do better alone than through an associative structure. Perhaps the intentions are good. Perhaps the energy is genuine. But representing an entire industry cannot be done individually, under a private company, no matter how well intended the effort may be.

Romanian wine is not an isolated product. It is the image of a country. And an image cannot be renegotiated from one year to the next, depending on budgets or egos.

In 2017, at Vinexpo Bordeaux, Romania left behind an unpaid invoice and a bitter aftertaste. At the time, we said it was an accident, an unfortunate administrative decision, a lesson that would not be repeated. Nine years have passed. It is now 2026. We like to believe we have matured. And yet the vulnerabilities remain the same. Budgetary rigidity, public procurement procedures, fiscal constraints are invoked. All of them are real and well known. Precisely for that reason, they should be integrated into a stable, predictable mechanism. If the wine sector is considered strategic, then external promotion cannot depend on improvisation or fragile coordination between institutions and producers.

But the sector itself is not without responsibility. Associations are not sufficiently consolidated, producers struggle to formulate a coherent common strategy, and mutual trust remains limited. Individual agendas prevail, and the collective reputation ultimately pays the price.

At Wine Paris, a stand is not merely an exhibition space. It is a statement. It is our business card. In an industry where perception carries enormous weight, the way you present yourself determines whether you are seen as a serious partner or an accidental presence. From a fiscal standpoint, budget differences may not seem dramatic. From an image standpoint, however, they can be decisive.

The uncomfortable reality is that the Romanian wine sector is smaller than it appears and more vulnerable than we like to admit. Around it lies fierce competition, saturated markets, pressure on pricing and positioning. Without a shared strategy and coherent institutional support, each producer remains alone in a disproportionate battle.

The state rightly says it needs concrete proposals from the sector. The sector, equally justified, says it needs predictability and genuine support. Between these two expectations, time passes and opportunities are lost. This is not a matter of a single guilty party. It is a matter of collective maturity.

Romania’s representation at a fair such as Wine Paris cannot be left to chance, nor informally delegated to isolated initiatives, however well intentioned. A clear framework is needed, with transparent criteria and a mechanism that offers equal opportunities to both large and small producers. Political accountability is required, but so is internal cohesion. Otherwise, we will continue to repeat the same scenario: excitement before the fair, tension during organization, justifications afterward. And the image of Romanian wine will remain suspended between potential and reality.

Perhaps Wine Paris 2026 is not a failure, but another signal. A signal that we can no longer postpone the professionalization of our external representation. That we can no longer function in fragments. That we can no longer treat image as a detail. Because in the world of wine, image is the beginning of trust. And trust is hard to build and easy to lose.

The question is no longer who is to blame. The question is whether we will have the clarity to sit at the same table — producers, associations, authorities — and finally build something together.

Chris Howard speaks about this distinction with a clarity that makes you stop and reflect. There is a subtle but essential difference between thinking about wine and thinking with wine. In the first case, wine becomes an object. In the second, it becomes an experience. A pretext for paying closer attention to what you feel, what you perceive, what happens inside you. (“Rethinking wine means shifting from thinking about wine to thinking with wine.”)

Maybe that’s why conversations about wine can no longer be separated from the way we live and consume—especially in a context where the numbers tell one story, and the reality in the glass sometimes tells another.

Statistically, Romania produces around four million hectoliters of wine. It sounds impressive. But if we look more closely, we see that the volume of certified wine that actually reaches the market, according to ONVPV data, is under one million hectoliters per year. The gap between these figures says a lot about market fragmentation, self-consumption, wine that never enters commercial circulation, and how small the visible part of the industry truly is.

At the same time, shelves are filling up with imported wines. Italy, France, and Spain lead the way, joined increasingly by the Republic of Moldova. Correct, consistent wines—sometimes surprisingly affordable. Wines that ask little of the consumer and require little emotional involvement. You buy them, you drink them, you move on.

In this context, Romanian wine finds itself in a delicate position. It can no longer compete on price alone, yet it has not fully built a coherent narrative around identity, meaning, and distinction. And the consumer, caught between promotions and quick recommendations, often ends up choosing by reflex rather than conviction. Perhaps the real problem isn’t a lack of quality, but a lack of attention.

Because wine asks for time. It asks for stillness. It asks for the willingness to notice not only what’s in the glass, but what happens inside you as you drink it. What draws your attention. What moves you. What you rush to judge. What you miss.

Maybe this is where the idea of A Glass of Wine a Day truly begins: with the desire to slow down and become more conscious in our relationship with wine. Not as an automatic gesture, not as a daily checkbox, but as a moment of real attention. A glass that doesn’t demand haste, but presence. That doesn’t come with answers, but with questions.

Because when you start drinking wine this way, something changes. Not only in how you choose a bottle, but in how you relate to taste, to time, to value. And at that point, the difference between a Romanian wine and an imported one is no longer just a matter of price or origin, but of relationship.

Perhaps the future of wine doesn’t lie in bigger volumes or more aggressive promotions. Perhaps it lies in this return to attention. To the simple act of being present. To the courage to feel, not just to evaluate. And if there is one direction truly worth exploring in the years to come, maybe it is this: learning, once again, to drink wine as humans—not as algorithms.

The November light in Sicily has little in common with the blaze of summer. It’s softer, rounder, yet carries the quiet assurance of a place that has watched centuries pass. It settles on old facades, hidden courtyards and sun-worn stone as if continuing a conversation begun long before us. Palermo felt unusually gentle that week — almost summery, wrapped in warm air, clear skies and a golden glow that gave the city the illusion of a lingering September. No rain, no chill, none of the grey we associate with November back home. Everything moved at an easy, sunlit rhythm, as if the city were preparing us, almost imperceptibly, for what we were about to taste.

In the heart of the city, Palazzo Branciforte opened its doors to the encounters that would frame the story of modern Sicily. A Renaissance palace with the austere nobility of its former centuries, now reborn as a cultural space, it proved the perfect setting to understand an island in the midst of redefining itself. Within its cool rooms and high ceilings, Sicily began to reveal its new voice.

Sicily Between Tradition and Transformation — From Terroir to Responsibility

Today, Sicily is one of Italy’s largest and most dynamic appellations, a viticultural mosaic where tradition alone is no longer enough. Climate change isn’t an abstract notion here — it is a daily reality: rising temperatures, persistent drought, scorching summers, pressure on soils, pressure on people.

DOC Sicilia chose not to respond with nostalgia but with strategy. And that strategy has a name: SOStain, the Sicilian sustainability foundation reshaping the island’s entire approach to viticulture — from integrated and organic agriculture to reduced water and energy use, soil protection, full traceability and a strong return to biodiversity.

After the symposium, over a quiet glass of wine, Antonio Rallo — president of the Consortium and owner of Donnafugata — explained to me with disarming clarity that SOStain is not a marketing slogan but Sicily’s survival manual. The way he spoke about soil, water and vine betrayed the responsibility of someone who knows that the future of wine begins with small gestures, repeated patiently over years. For him, sustainability isn’t a trend — it is a lifeline.

And here lies the surprise: Sicily doesn’t simply want to remain relevant.
It wants to become a global model of sustainability, despite the challenges.

The Three Pillars of the Sicilian Temple: Lucido, Grillo, Nero d’Avola

The first masterclass explored foundations — what truly defines Sicily at its core. The three grapes in focus — Catarratto (Lucido), Grillo and Nero d’Avola — felt like essential chapters of the island’s identity, reinterpreted through a modern lens.

Lucido (Catarratto)
Long considered a workhorse variety, it appeared here as a revelation. High-altitude Lucido shows a brightness that evokes cool mornings rather than southern heat: notes of pink grapefruit, green apple, white peach and a delicate marine salinity. In versions aged on fine lees, the texture deepens, gaining a quiet elegance that needs no showmanship. A deeply underestimated grape with remarkable potential.

Grillo
If Lucido is tradition, Grillo is freedom. A chameleon of a grape, capable of swinging between tropical warmth and saline, zesty freshness depending on where and how it’s grown. In the glasses before us, Grillo moved from citrus-driven verticality to richer, more exotic expressions. A versatile grape, perfectly tuned to the needs of a changing climate.

Nero d’Avola
The undisputed monarch of Sicilian reds. Here, it combined blackberries, cherries and subtle spice with surprising freshness and silky tannins. Nero d’Avola is no longer the heavy, rustic red of decades past — it has become a refined, altitude-friendly wine that keeps its soul while evolving in style.

Hidden Treasures: Inzolia, Zibibbo, Frappato, Perricone

The second masterclass felt like the poetic counterpoint to the first — a deep dive into the island’s quiet, unexpected diversity.

Inzolia
Graceful, calm, understated. Citrus, almond, mango and a faint herbal whisper. A sunlit grape, but never exuberant — always balanced.

Zibibbo (Muscat of Alexandria)
The scent of eternal summer: white peach, jasmine, pineapple — yet surprisingly crisp and dry on the palate. The room softened noticeably with this wine; it’s hard not to smile when Zibibbo is done well.

Frappato
Playful, ruby-red, aromatic. Strawberries, raspberries, violets. Whisper-light tannins. The kind of red you drink chilled, fast, and cheerfully — more terrace happiness than classroom discipline.

Perricone
A rediscovered native, with firm tannins, wild herbs, pink peppercorn and dark fruit. It brought welcome depth to the line-up — a reminder that Sicily is not only pleasure, but also gravitas.

Sicily’s Tomorrow Is Being Written Today

The masterclasses were more than tastings; they were lessons in adaptation, identity and evolution. Inside the cool rooms of Palazzo Branciforte, I understood why Sicily is not merely an island of the past — it is an island of the future.

Sicilian wines are no longer “wines of the sun.”
They are wines of altitude, of precision, of vision.

Lucido transforms into a mineral, crystalline white.
Grillo rises as the island’s modern superstar.
Nero d’Avola becomes elegance rather than power.
Inzolia, Zibibbo, Frappato, Perricone — each finds its new voice in a Sicily reinventing itself.

And behind all these wines lies a shared philosophy:
sustainability isn’t a trend; it’s the only way forward.

When I stepped out of the palazzo, the November light still lingered on the city, and the aroma of freshly tasted wines clung softly to the air. That’s when I understood the true allure of Sicily: it is not an island living in the shadow of its glorious past, but one entirely committed to the present it is building — a present more daring than many wine regions in the world.

Sicily is not reinventing itself. Sicily is evolving — and inviting us to witness its future.

Guadalajara – The Cultural Heartbeat of Jalisco

The journey begins in Guadalajara, a city where tradition and modernity dance in perfect harmony. With its baroque architecture, colorful markets, and the ever-present sound of mariachi, Guadalajara embodies Mexico’s generous soul.

Our first evening began with a welcome cocktail at the Governor’s Residence — a majestic colonial palace filled with cultural artifacts and murals narrating Jalisco’s history. In its vast inner courtyard, under the soft glow of lanterns, we were welcomed with local delicacies and our first sips of tequila — the ideal prologue to understanding this land of warmth and craftsmanship.

Valle del Tequila – A UNESCO Heritage of Spirit and Soil

An hour away from Guadalajara, the landscape opens into an amphitheater of bluish hills covered in agave. This is Paisaje Agavero y Valle del Tequila, recognized by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site.

The town of Tequila, with its cobbled streets, colonial houses and historic distilleries, offers a complete immersion into the universe of Mexico’s national drink. Each distillery has its own story – some preserve traditional methods using stone ovens and tahona wheels pulled by mules, while others impress with contemporary technology and interactive tours.

The route includes the towns of Amatitán, El Arenal, Magdalena, Ahualulco de Mercado, Etzatlán and Teuchitlán, each with a distinct identity. In Teuchitlán lies the Guachimontones Archaeological Zone, a unique circular complex and proof of a pre-Hispanic civilization that first cultivated the agave plant.

Beyond tastings, the region offers authentic gastronomy in restaurants such as La Cueva de Don Cenobio and La Antigua Casona, and accommodation experiences in historical haciendas like Hacienda El Carmen and Solar de las Ánimas.

New tourism projects announced for 2026 – including the La Familia Rivera Trail in Teuchitlán and My Quetzal Trail in Amatitán – will further enrich the experience with themed tours, mixology, gastronomy and outdoor adventure.

Los Altos del Tequila – Where Tradition Meets Elegance

To the northeast, at altitudes above 1,500 meters, lies Los Altos de Jalisco – a region known for its elegant tequilas with floral aromas and a silky texture. The red, iron-rich soil and cooler climate define the distinct style of tequilas produced here, and locals proudly call it “the land with a soul.”

The Los Altos del Tequila Route crosses the towns of Arandas, Atotonilco el Alto, Tepatitlán de Morelos, Ayotlán, Acatic and San Ignacio Cerro Gordo – forming a triangle of distilleries, haciendas and charro traditions, Mexico’s national equestrian heritage.

Distillery tours such as Tequila Don Julio (Atotonilco el Alto), Campo Azul (Jesús María) and San Matías (Acatic) offer visitors a complete experience – from walking through agave fields to guided tastings and farm-to-table gastronomic pairings.

Culinary offerings here are equally refined, from Bramido and Casa Trujillo in Tepatitlán to La Regina 1904 in Arandas. The local cuisine blends terroir ingredients – corn, beans, beef and artisanal cheeses – with tequila or raicilla pairings, creating a contemporary reinterpretation of tradition.

Haciendas transformed into boutique hotels, such as Hacienda Vieja (Arandas) or Casa Naranjos (Tepatitlán), offer colonial charm and modern comfort, ideal for cultural and gastronomic tourism.

Raicilla – The Hidden Gem of Jalisco

Beyond tequila, Jalisco brings another spirit into the spotlight: Raicilla, a distillate with its own Denomination of Origin. Produced mainly in the coastal and mountain regions, Raicilla embodies a 300-year-old artisanal tradition.

Made from various species of agave, this handcrafted spirit combines ancestral methods – roasting the agave hearts in clay ovens, natural fermentation, and distillation in copper or clay stills. Raicilla has a surprising aromatic profile, with earthy, wild herb and tropical fruit notes, and a delicate mineral finish.

The recognition of its Denomination of Origin in 2019 has brought Raicilla international attention, while the Ruta de la Raicilla and Ruta Costalegre offer visitors the opportunity to discover the small producers who keep this ancient craft alive.

Puerto Vallarta – Where the Mountains Meet the Sea

The journey ends on the Pacific coast, in Puerto Vallarta, a destination that blends Mexican spirit with modern sophistication. The resort town is a meeting point between ocean, mountains and culture, offering a mix of fine dining, adventure tourism and authentic hospitality.

The beaches of Costalegre, from Chamela to Careyes, invite both relaxation and exploration – through fishing villages, nature reserves and beachfront bars where cocktails made with Tequila and Raicilla have become iconic.

A Journey Through the True Taste of Mexico

From Guadalajara to Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco offers more than a route — it offers a revelation. Every city, every distillery, every dish tells a story about people, land, and legacy. Here, authenticity isn’t a marketing term; it’s a way of life. Jalisco is a place to taste, to listen, and to feel — because in Mexico, flavor always comes with a story.

A Spirit with a Secret Past

Raicilla was born in the 17th century, when local producers sought to escape the heavy colonial taxes on agave distillates. To disguise it, they called it “raicilla” — “little root” — implying it came from the plant’s roots rather than its heart.
But behind that humble name stood centuries of craft. Indigenous people of western Mexico had already been cooking agave (maguey) long before Spanish colonization. The word mezcal itself comes from the Nahuatl mexcalli — “cooked maguey” — a reminder that these spirits predate the modern state and even the nation itself.

In Jalisco, this ancestral knowledge merged with the distilling techniques brought from Asia through the Manila Galleon trade route (1565–1815). Ships sailing from the Philippines to Acapulco carried not only spices and silk, but also the art of distillation. When that knowledge reached the mountains of Jalisco, it fused with local tradition — and Raicilla was born.

From “Vino Mezcal” to Denomination of Origin

By the 1800s, agave spirits were known generically as vino mezcal, produced across a wide region that included Tequila.
Historical records show that by 1887, over 60 million agaves were being cultivated, yielding 100,000 barrels of mezcal wine.
But Raicilla took a different path. Produced in remote highlands and coastal villages, often outside the law, it remained a rural secret — passed from generation to generation in small tabernas.

It wasn’t until 2019 that Raicilla received its own Denomination of Origin (DO), covering 16 municipalities in Jalisco and one in Nayarit. After three centuries of hiding, the “little root” had finally earned its name in history.

The Taste of Place

Raicilla is more than a drink — it’s a conversation with the land.
Depending on where it’s made, its character shifts dramatically:

• Raicilla de la Sierra comes from the temperate, mineral-rich highlands around Mascota and San Sebastián del Oeste, made mostly from Agave maximiliana and inaequidens. These are floral, herbaceous, with crisp acidity — the mountain air bottled.
• Raicilla de la Costa is born in the warm, humid Pacific lowlands near El Tuito and Tomatlán, where Agave angustifolia and rhodacantha thrive. Here, the flavors are rounder, fruitier, with whispers of mango, sea breeze and smoke.

I still remember tasting a Sierra-style Raicilla in a small distillery Taberna Tres Gallos. It had notes of pine and citrus, with a faint trace of smoke and salt. There was something profoundly human in it — imperfect, alive, and honest.

Craft and Chemistry

Despite its rustic charm, Raicilla is a marvel of natural chemistry.
When agave piñas are roasted, their complex inulin break down into simple sugars; during fermentation, wild yeasts transform them into alcohols and aromatic esters; and distillation in clay or copper stills concentrates those volatile compounds into a rich, textured spirit.

Each stage adds complexity:

• Roasting creates caramelized, smoky notes.
• Fermentation yields fruit and spice aromas.
• Distillation refines texture and structure.

Most Raicillas are bottled between 40–50% ABV, unaged (joven) to preserve purity. Some are aged in oak barrels (reposado or añejo) or matured in glass (madurada en vidrio), softening the edges and introducing tones of vanilla, dried fruit and spice.

The Human Scale of Production

Unlike tequila, Raicilla remains proudly artisanal.
There are only about 82 registered distilleries, producing roughly 650,000 liters per year — a fraction of the industrial tequila output. The ecosystem is intimate: farmers, distillers and families working side by side, cultivating around 1,100 hectares of agave.

About 70% of Raicilla comes from Agave maximiliana, a species that grows wild on the steep slopes of the Sierra Madre Occidental. Harvesting it is not industrial — it’s personal. Each plant matures for 8 to 12 years before it’s cut, roasted in earthen ovens, and fermented under open skies.

It’s this connection to time and place that gives Raicilla its soul. You can taste the patience, the weather, the altitude.

Tasting Raicilla: A Personal Moment

Due to Spirits Selection by CMB, surrounded by experts from all over the world, I found myself in front of a glass that defied expectations. Unlike tequila’s clean precision or mezcal’s smoky intensity, Raicilla seemed wilder — its aromas unfolding slowly, unpredictably. Notes of wild herbs, citrus peel, sun-warmed earth, and a faint saltiness that lingered on the palate. It reminded me of why we travel for taste: to find authenticity. Raicilla isn’t polished; it’s pure. It speaks of mountains, fire, and people who never stopped believing that tradition has a place in modernity.

From Hidden Past to Bright Future

Today, Raicilla stands proudly alongside tequila and mezcal as one of Mexico’s great spirits.
The Ruta de la Raicilla, launched by the Jalisco Tourism Board, invites travelers to visit its tabernas, meet distillers, and experience the landscape behind each bottle — mountains shrouded in mist, clay ovens smoldering with agave fibers, and families who turn nature into culture.

For me, Raicilla is more than a rediscovery — it’s a reminder.
That authenticity survives when people care.
That every sip can carry centuries of memory.
And that sometimes, the smallest roots grow into the strongest traditions.

Spirits Selection by CMB 2025: Between Competition and Discovery

The town of Tequila in Mexico is not only a place with an emblematic name, but also a symbol of a tradition that has conquered the world. This September, it hosted the 27th edition of the Spirits Selection by Concours Mondial de Bruxelles – one of the most prestigious international competitions dedicated to spirits.

Over the course of three days, 140 judges from 45 countries embarked on a true marathon of diversity: 2,598 entries, representing 70 countries and divided into 64 categories, including six new ones dedicated to lesser-known traditional spirits – from India’s Mahua to Mexico’s Sotol and Cyprus’ Zivania. These numbers illustrate the globalization of spirits, but the experience of judging goes far beyond statistics.

Day One – Grapes, Terroir, and Heritage

My panel was made up of five members – four women and one man, a colleague from Denmark who specializes mainly in sugarcane-based distillates. We were surprised to discover that, despite our different cultural backgrounds and professional experiences, our preferences often aligned.

The first day focused on grape-based spirits: Pisco from Peru and Chile, Rakija from Bulgaria, Unaged Grappa from Italy, and finally, the elegance of a refined Cognac from France. It was a day where terroir spoke powerfully, with each glass carrying traditions that span centuries.

Day Two – From Mysterious Gins to No/Lo Aperitifs

The second day took us on a whirlwind tour around the world. We began with citrus-flavored gins, difficult to pinpoint – they could have originated anywhere. We then moved on to Mezcal, the distinctly Mexican spirit with smoky character, before engaging in lively debates over the provenance of Agricultural & Cane Juice Rhum. Was it Madeira, the Caribbean, or another exotic country? Impossible to say with certainty.

Perhaps the most challenging session of the day was the No/Lo aperitifs. A boundless category, where producers’ creativity was reflected in vibrant colors, unexpected aromas, and unconventional styles. We ended the evening with Kaolang, a Taiwanese Baijiu that impressed us with its intensity and complexity.

Day Three – Global Whisky and Herbal Elixirs

The final day was once again an exotic journey. We began with a World Blended Whisky, moved on to a French Single Malt, and then discovered, to our delight, Slivovitz – the famous plum spirit, pronounced exactly as it is written.

This was followed by a series of sweet and intensely aromatic herbal liqueurs – mint, eucalyptus, Mediterranean herbs – reminiscent of medicinal tonics, both invigorating and fragrant. The competition closed in spectacular fashion with a Sauce Aroma Baijiu, an authentic expression of Chinese tradition.

Beyond Tasting – The Spirit of the Competition

What makes Spirits Selection unique is not only the diversity or quality of the entries, but also the working atmosphere: carefully calibrated sessions, impeccable organization, and judging panels designed to reflect global diversity. Every sample is blind-tasted with rigor and attention, ensuring that the medals awarded truly stand as benchmarks of quality.

But the competition also offers producers a powerful tool for promotion and visibility. Winning a medal here means more than professional recognition: it brings tangible market advantages – increased trust among distributors, access to new export markets, international media exposure, and, often, a boost in sales.

In addition, Spirits Selection serves as a genuine networking platform. Producers connect with experts, communicators, importers, and retailers, while their stories travel further through the voices of judges and organizers. The competition builds bridges between cultures and markets, between tradition and innovation.

A Global Showcase for Tradition and Innovation

Ultimately, what remains is not just the tasting notes, but the image of a competition that brings together worlds, continents, and cultures in a single place. Spirits Selection by CMB is more than a medal podium: it is a stage where tradition meets innovation, where small and large producers alike join in a shared dialogue.

In Tequila, Mexico, I rediscovered not only the strength of an emblematic drink, but also the beauty of an international community of professionals united by the same passion. I left with the feeling that every glass we tasted was, in fact, a story told in the universal language of spirits.

Still, what makes each trip here truly special are the people. Over the years, my fellow judges—coming from every corner of the world—have become like a family. In fact, I often see them more than my own relatives. With them I share not just wines and tastings, but also small urban adventures, long walks, late-night conversations, and the simple joy of being together.

This year, before dinner, we began with something quite unexpected for Berlin: a visit to a sake brewery. Marie, a dear friend and sake educator at WSET, welcomed us into a newly opened brewhouse next to a cozy sake bar. There we met the producer himself, who walked us through each step of the process—faithful to Japanese tradition but using rice imported from Italy by his own family. We tasted several styles of sake, including a sparkling one, and for a moment stepped into a completely different world—delicate, aromatic, and just as complex as wine. It was the perfect prelude to what would become a memorable evening.

For several years now, it has become our tradition to close one of the competition days with a special dinner in a surprising location. In 2025, our choice was Merold, a restaurant in East Berlin. Getting there is a small adventure in itself: the competition takes place in the west of the city, near Lake Tegel, so the journey by U-Bahn to the center can take almost an hour. Sometimes we go by bike, other times we stroll along the quiet lakeside paths, but the truth is, in Berlin even the journey feels like part of the experience.

At Merold, a creative and daring menu was waiting for us. Pairing a dinner for a table full of wine judges is never an easy task, but the team rose to the challenge. Only one natural wine sparked a heated discussion—the kind of wine that could easily mislead a newcomer into thinking it represents the whole category.

As for the dishes, they were unforgettable: radishes with yogurt and cheese, grilled cauliflower with oil and blackcurrants, shallots sautéed with garlic and dark flour, guinea fowl ravioli with bacon “orecchiette,” and finally, a refreshing dessert—gooseberry ice cream. Each course told its own story, each bite revealed a new layer.

And, as always, I realized that the real beauty of these evenings lies not only in the food or the wines, but in the people gathered around the table. In the laughter that comes out of nowhere, in the memories shared, in the plans made for the future.

That, for me, is what Berlin truly means: beyond the competition, beyond the wines, it’s about the joy of reunion, the friendships that grow stronger every year, and the certainty that this city never lets you leave empty-handed. Each time, you take something with you—a story, a memory, a smile that lingers long after the plane or train has taken you away.