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.

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.

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.

Berlin always has something special that draws you in and makes you want to return. It is a vibrant city where, alongside history and art, you also find one of the most important international wine competitions: the Berliner Wine Trophy, held twice a year. My first participation was in 2014, and since then I have grown, learned, and refined my skills, eventually becoming a team leader (panel chair), coordinating a tasting panel.

The competition itself consists of four days of intensive tastings, each organized into several series of wines. Every series shares a common theme: they may come from the same country, the same grape variety, or related varieties from different regions. This format allows you to quickly form an understanding of a vintage’s typicity or the evolving trends in wine styles.

A relevant example: all red wines from the 2024 vintage were fruit-forward, unoaked, and without barrel ageing – approachable, juicy, easy to pair, yet full of personality.

The Cuvée series, whether white or red, always presents a challenge. Guessing the country of origin is not easy, and that is what makes it exciting. In another series dedicated to Chardonnay, I bet on Eastern Europe – and was right: the wines came from Hungary.

Italy remains a reliable benchmark, a country you can always count on for diversity and quality. I “traveled” through its wines: from Sicily with Catarratto, to Piemonte with Arneis, through Friuli, Veneto, Soave, Marche, and Tuscany with Trebbiano (Turbiano), Ribolla Gialla, Garganega, and Verdicchio, and back to Sicily with Carricante. All displayed freshness, floral and fruity notes, and lively acidity – exactly what you want on a warm summer day.

A standout moment was the series dedicated to Cortese, a regal selection of Gavi – the perfect wine to enjoy by the sea. Among the white wines, the Pinot Gris (Grauburgunder) series from Germany deserves mention – a revelation for its personality and structure, despite being considered a neutral grape. It may seem rustic in its first year, but it evolves beautifully and reaches perfection after 3–4 years. Gold medals were awarded generously.

For the red wines, global trends were confirmed: intense fruit aromas, unoaked, elegant, and easy to drink. This is a style I personally prefer. The most spectacular was Tempranillo from 2024 and 2023, sometimes blended with Graciano or Garnacha. Italy and Spain were the stars of the competition.

There were also surprises: red wines from Cyprus, introduced by our Cypriot colleague. Indigenous varieties such as Yiannoudi, Ofthalmo, and Maratheftiko (vintages 2018–2022) impressed with aromas of dark fruits, aromatic herbs, and spices.

Participating in the Berliner Wine Trophy is always a valuable experience – not only for the wines tasted, but also for the people you meet and for seeing international trends confirmed. It was a true pleasure to work alongside my fellow panel members, whose professionalism, attention to detail, and collaborative spirit made every tasting both rigorous and enjoyable. I am also grateful to the organizers, who provided perfect conditions for evaluation and a welcoming environment for all participants. This experience reaffirmed that the success of a wine competition relies on a dedicated team and passionate people. The Berliner Wine Trophy remains a benchmark in the wine world, and the 2025 edition was no exception.

Studying the Fetească Neagră from Lacerta in depth confirmed something I had long suspected: that this indigenous Romanian grape, when treated with understanding and care, can tell stories of rare beauty. And that the Dealu Mare region—literally “The Big Hill,” Romania’s most prestigious red wine appellation—is where this variety truly comes into its own.

Though Fetească Neagră (pronounced fe-TEASK-ah NEAH-grah) is cultivated in several regions across Romania and Moldova, it’s in Dealu Mare, with its iron-rich reddish soils, southern exposure and long ripening season, that it achieves the deepest expression of its character. The region’s terroir, shaped by hills, warm summers and cool nights, brings balance and structure to a grape that can be temperamental in the vineyard and complex in the cellar.

Lacerta Winery, located in the village of Fințești, has become one of the leading names in modern Romanian winemaking. Here, Fetească Neagră is not rushed or forced into international styles—it is guided, gently, to reveal what the land and the year have given. Fermentation takes place in temperature-controlled stainless steel tanks, with minimal mechanical stress. Part of the wine is then matured in carefully selected Romanian oak barrels usually used. These barrels don’t overpower the wine—they accompany it. They add finesse, depth, and a slow rhythm to the evolution of fruit, tannin, and spice.

Over the course of ten years and ten vintages—2011 to 2022—Lacerta’s Fetească Neagră has shown remarkable stylistic consistency while reflecting the individuality of each harvest. The 2012 vintage, shaped by prolonged drought, gave concentrated wines with black fruit, dried plums and a subtle, iron-like minerality. 2016 was all about balance: bright acidity, supple tannins, complex aromas of dark cherries, sweet spices and bittersweet chocolate. And 2022, a standout vintage, produced a wine that’s both fresh and structured, with excellent potential for aging.

Even in more challenging years like 2014 or 2020, marked by climatic extremes, Lacerta succeeded in crafting wines that are coherent and honest, true to their vintage and varietal identity. That’s no small feat for a grape as demanding as Fetească Neagră.

Organoleptically, the wine is intense in color—deep ruby in its youth, turning garnet with age. The aromatic profile is generous and layered: ripe black fruits (blackberries, plums, black cherries), dried fig, coffee, leather and a touch of dark chocolate. On the palate, it is velvety and expansive, with a fine-tuned balance between acidity and tannin. The finish is long, elegant and slightly earthy, echoing the mineral tension of the Dealu Mare terroir.

Pairing this wine invites creativity. It shines next to duck breast with sour cherry sauce, slow-cooked beef stews, hard aged cheeses or even a rustic dessert with dried fruits and cinnamon. But perhaps the best pairing is a quiet evening among friends who know how to listen—to each other, and to the wine.

What remains after a glass—or a bottle—of Lacerta’s Fetească Neagră is more than just the satisfaction of a well-made wine. It is the feeling of having been part, even for a moment, of a deeper story. A story about place, about patience, and about a native grape that, when given time and attention, can truly rise to excellence.

Lacerta’s wines are the result of a vision that blends scientific rigor with emotional intuition. Behind that vision stands Mihai Baniță, the estate’s chief oenologist, whose steady hand and deep understanding of both the grape and the land have shaped every vintage. He approaches winemaking with precision, restraint, and an instinct for elegance. Under his winemaking skills, Lacerta has become a benchmark not only for Fetească Neagră, but for what modern Romanian winemaking can achieve when tradition meets innovation.

Photo credit: www.lacertawinery.ro & myself