Trend No. 6: “Orange Wines”
Chapter 2. Why We Forgot It—and How We Remembered
You can read Chapter 1 here…
“We made wine correct.
And then we began to remember what it once was.”
Orange (or amber) wines are wines made from white grapes that are fermented with the skins, giving them a deeper color and more structure. Despite their ancient origins, this style remained on the fringes of the wine world for many years. In this chapter, we’ll explore why this tradition was forgotten—and how it found its way back into modern wine culture.
⚙️ A Pause in the Story: How We Forgot
Old practices didn’t disappear overnight. First, the process was simplified a little. Then the “unnecessary” elements were gradually removed. Clay and wooden vessels gave way to stainless steel. Then came strict temperature control during fermentation—and with it, predictability. The skins were removed, contact with them reduced, the taste “cleaned up.” Eventually, wine was made fully “correct.”
White wine was supposed to be white. Transparent. Clean. Predictable. And anything that didn’t fit this picture stopped being considered normal.
Everything is under control. Even the taste
And somewhere far away, in Georgia, qvevri continued to be buried in the ground. But who noticed, while the rest of the world was looking the other way?
🔥 The Return: The Rebels of Friuli
Time passed. And at some point, it became clear that something was missing from all this “correctness”: not just flavor, but meaning.
…Northern Italy, Friuli–Venezia Giulia, late 1990s.
Small estates. People who didn’t particularly like being told how things “should” be done. Among them—Josko Gravner and Stanko Radikon.
They started doing strange things: leaving white grapes on the skins, using amphorae, not filtering the wine. It became cloudy again, tannic, unpredictable—in short, “incorrect.” It almost looked like a mistake. Or a step backward. But for them, it was a step sideways—away from where wine had become all the same.
Less control. More meaning
— Why? — people asked them.
— Because that’s how it used to be, — they answered. — We’re not inventing anything new. We’re just returning to the old.
🎯 What Matters
This wasn’t a trend. It was a reaction—to sterility, to uniformity, to predictability. To wine that had become too “correct.”
And it was from there—from this quiet, almost stubborn return—that a new chapter began, one that would later be called “orange wines.”
🍊 The Name
The name, of course, is a bit misleading. “Orange wine” sounds as if someone decided to experiment with citrus or orange peel. But fruit has nothing to do with it—this isn’t Triple sec.
Here, the name is simply about color. When white grapes ferment with their skins—as is usually done with red varieties—the juice gradually extracts what normally remains on the outside: color, structure, a slight astringency.
The result is not the familiar pale white, but a wine with shades of amber, honey, and sometimes even something close to orange peel.
That’s where the name comes from. Though many winemakers prefer to call these wines “amber”—and perhaps even a bit more elegant than “orange.”
It looks like orange. But it’s not about that
🌍 Why Northern Italy and the Balkans
This didn’t happen here by chance.
► A border winemaking zone: not a center, but a crossroads of cultures—a kind of self-contained periphery. Which means fewer rigid rules, more flexibility, and traditions that were never fully standardized. People here rely less on “fashion” and more on their own judgment.
► Proximity to an older tradition: not Georgia, of course—but closer to an “eastern” wine culture than, say, Bordeaux. Skin contact was not something alien here, and amphorae or older methods didn’t feel like something “primitive.” When Josko Gravner traveled to Georgia, he didn’t “discover” something new—he recognized something that already felt familiar.
► A reaction to industrialization: Northern Italy is a highly developed wine region, with advanced technology and high standards. “Correct” wine here had become too uniform. And for some winemakers, there was a growing sense: we’ve lost something important.
► The human factor: people like Josko Gravner and Stanko Radikon are not just winemakers—they’re stubborn individualists. What they share is a willingness to go against the market, ignore criticism, and make “challenging” wine. Without them, nothing would have happened.
► Local grape varieties: the region has many indigenous grapes with thick skins and strong structure. They are better suited for skin contact and produce more interesting results.
And perhaps it was precisely this combination of factors that made the region the perfect place for such a “return.”
In these places, wine wasn’t so much “fixed” as it was an attempt to remember what it used to be
🌍 How It Became a Trend
“Is it a fad—or a serious category?”
At first, almost no one noticed. A handful of winemakers in Friuli–Venezia Giulia—considered somewhat unusual by industry standards—began producing wines that didn’t fit into any familiar category.
Then sommeliers started talking about it. Not immediately—cautiously, almost in whispers.
In New York, London, Copenhagen, wine lists began to appear where, alongside familiar options, you could suddenly find glasses of this strange amber-colored wine. People didn’t always understand them. But they started talking about them.
Then came those who were tired of sameness. It turned out that wine could be not only “correct,” but interesting. Not only predictable, but alive. And that behind the taste, there could be a story.
Social media did the rest. The color—warm, deep, almost glowing—was simply too photogenic to go unnoticed. A glass of amber wine against a sunset drew far more attention than a perfectly clear Chardonnay—even in the hands of celebrities.
Sometimes, being a little beautiful is enough to become popular. Even if you’re slightly tannic
But it wasn’t just about the color.
Orange (amber) wines unexpectedly turned out to be exactly what people were looking for: less industrial, more artisanal; less standardized, more character. And at some point, this stopped being an experiment. It became a choice. First—for the curious. Then—for those who understood. And eventually—just another part of the broader world of wine.
This wasn’t the invention of something new. It was a return to something once forgotten
⚖️ It’s Not That Simple
Of course, all of this sounds beautiful—history, tradition, a return to the roots. But in practice, it’s a bit more complicated.
► First, they’re not always easy to understand. What feels like complexity and depth to one person may come across as simply a strange taste to another. Tannins in white wine, a slight bitterness, an unfamiliar texture—all of this can be off-putting rather than intriguing.
🍷 …Paris. Present day. A small misunderstanding
In one of the fashionable wine bars in the French capital, it was busy. Warm light, wooden tables, a long wine list on the wall. Nearly half the entries—strange, unfamiliar names marked “orange” or “amber.”
A couple sat down at a table by the window—not regulars. He was curious; she, slightly cautious.
The waiter brought the glasses.
She looked at the wine and frowned.
— Is this… supposed to look like this?
He leaned closer, squinting:
— Looks like tea. Or like something that was supposed to be white… but changed its mind.
She took a careful sip. A second of silence.
— Is it spoiled?
— Is it spoiled? — No. It’s just different
The waiter, standing nearby, didn’t seem surprised. He had clearly heard that question before.
— No, — he said calmly. — It’s alive.
A brief pause. He looked at the glass, then back at the waiter:
— Is it… always like this?
The waiter gave a slight smile:
— Almost never the same.
► Second, stability. When a winemaker deliberately avoids certain control steps—filtration, additives, strict temperature management—the result becomes less predictable. Sometimes this creates character; sometimes it creates problems. And the line between the two isn’t always obvious.
► Third, a philosophical issue: at some point, the “return to the roots” itself became a trend. Wines appeared that told a better story than they actually tasted. And without experience, it’s not always easy to tell the difference.
► And finally, price. Paradoxically, what began as a kind of rebellion against industrial wine fairly quickly found its way onto the wine lists of fashionable restaurants—and at prices that were no longer very “rebellious.”
The most anti-commercial wines suddenly became highly commercial
🎯 And Yet
But perhaps the point is not to understand or love these wines right away. It’s to allow that wine can be different. Not better, not worse.
Simply different.
💰 The Economics of “Orange” Wines
At first glance, it might seem that such wines should be cheaper. Less intervention, fewer technologies—lower production costs. But in reality, it’s more complicated. Costs are no lower—sometimes even higher.
► ⚙️ 1. Not industry, but craft
Most of these wines are made by small producers: limited volumes, manual labor, no economies of scale. And that almost always means higher costs compared to mass production.
► 🏺 2. Qvevri and amphorae
Traditional vessels used in this method are not inexpensive. Making qvevri is a craft in itself; installing them (burying them in the ground) is labor-intensive; and maintaining them is more complex. Unlike standard stainless-steel tanks, this is not a “set it and forget it” solution.
► ⏳ 3. Time = money
These wines often ferment and age longer. Which means capital is tied up, and turnover is slower.
► 🎲 4. Risk
Less control → more variability. Sometimes a batch turns out excellent, sometimes not quite. And that risk is also built into the price.
► 🍷 5. The market paradox
Most interestingly, price is often determined not only by cost but also by demand, curiosity, and “trendiness.” And at some point, “anti-industrial” wines end up in fashionable bars at prices higher than industrial counterparts.
👉 On average, such wines are not necessarily more expensive to produce—but they are almost always more expensive to buy than they could be.
🍷 Back to the Tbilisi Bar
Greg was still sitting at the bar. The same glass stood in front of him, and the wine in it hadn’t changed—except that the bartender had topped it up slightly. But now it no longer felt strange, nor foreign.
He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t trying to break the taste down into familiar Napa categories. He simply took a sip—and waited. As if, for the first time, he allowed the wine to be what it was, not what it was “supposed” to be.
The bartender stepped away for a moment, talking to someone at the other end of the counter. At a nearby table, people were laughing; someone spoke in English, someone argued in Georgian. That same slightly unusual, yet now almost familiar murmur.
Greg caught himself thinking that he was no longer trying to listen closely. As if meaning no longer mattered more than sound.
He returned to his glass. The amber color no longer required explanation. It was simply part of the evening. Part of the city. Part of the country.
And perhaps, in some way, part of him—though he wouldn’t have admitted that yet.
— So… you like it? — the bartender asked, returning.
Greg paused for a moment. Before, the answer would have been simple: yes or no. Now—it wasn’t that simple.
He gave a slight smile:
— I’m not sure yet.
A brief pause.
— But I want to understand it.
The bartender nodded.
— That’s enough.
Greg took another sip. And for the first time that evening, he didn’t try to compare it to anything he had known before.
🚗 The Road to Kakheti
The next day, the thought came almost on its own. If he was already in Tbilisi, why not go further? To where it had all begun.
He rented a car. The city faded behind him quickly. The road grew wider, then narrower, then almost empty. The landscape changed gradually: hills, vineyards, scattered houses, the outline of mountains on the horizon—and vineyards again.
It didn’t resemble Napa Valley, where he had been more than once. Nor Sonoma. Nor anything else he had seen before.
Everything here felt… less polished, less manicured. And because of that—more real.
As he drove, he thought about his grandmother. Her stories—fragmented, without detail, yet strangely precise in certain small things.
Her house. A bench by the gate. A dense tree behind the fence. A birch—which in itself seemed odd in this climate, but she had always insisted on it. He hadn’t paid much attention back then. Now, he was trying to remember everything.
🏡 The Search
The village he was looking for greeted him with silence. A few streets, old houses, dogs lazily watching the occasional passing car. Beyond the outskirts—vineyards again.
Greg stopped, got out, looked around. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. And more importantly—how to find it. Too many years had passed. Too much had changed. Houses change. People die. Stories fade away.
He walked slowly down the street. Looked at the gates, the fences, the windows. Tried to imagine which of these houses might once have been the one.
By one of the gates stood an old bench. Probably not the one. And yet—almost like it. He stopped. Ran his hand over the wood, worn smooth by time. He felt nothing. And yet, for some reason, he didn’t want to leave.
He didn’t know. But he felt it had been there
He didn’t know.
But he felt that this was it
Just in case, he took out his phone and snapped a photo.
— ვის ეძებ? (vis edzeb?) (— Who are you looking for?)
Greg turned around. An elderly man stood nearby—calmly, without curiosity, as if such questions were asked here every day.
Greg understood the question almost effortlessly—as if he had heard it before. But answering was harder.
— I don’t know, — he said in English, almost automatically.
Then he fell silent, as if gathering words—piece by piece—from memory, from childhood, from conversations he had once overheard but never truly had himself.
And hesitantly, with pauses, he said:
— Maybe… something that no longer exists.
The man nodded.
— მაშინ სწორ ადგილას ხარ. (mashin stsor adgilas khar)
(Then you’re in the right place.)
And at that moment, Greg realized that he could understand Georgian—but didn’t know it well enough to carry on a conversation. The connection to the language was there, but incomplete. Not lost—just out of reach.
He hesitated, realizing he wouldn’t be able to continue in Georgian, and that in a remote village like this, finding someone who spoke English wouldn’t be easy.
The man watched him calmly, without impatience. The pause stretched.
Greg gave an awkward smile, took out his phone, and quickly opened a translation app.
— One second, — he said, more to himself than to the man.
He pressed record, hesitated for a moment, and said into the phone:
— I’m looking for my grandmother’s house. She lived here a long time ago.
The phone paused—then spoke in Georgian. The man listened carefully.
Then nodded.
— Aha… — he said slowly, as if something had become clear to him.
He replied calmly, without rushing. Greg held up the phone again to “translate back.” This time, the pause was slightly longer. The screen flickered, and a mechanical voice said in English:
— Maybe the house is gone. But people remember.
Greg looked up. The man was watching him with a slight smile. As if he knew the translation wasn’t entirely precise—but close enough.
— Come, — he added in English, with a noticeable accent.
And gestured for Greg to follow him.
🍷 The House and the Wine
The house turned out to be very close—just around the corner, past a couple of yards. Nothing remarkable: old walls, wooden gates, a vine stretched over a simple canopy.
The man opened the gate and gestured for him to come in.
— Come in.
The yard was quiet. Somewhere deeper inside stood a table, a simple bench, and several large clay vessels were buried in the ground by the wall. Greg’s gaze lingered on them for a moment. He already knew what they were. Qvevri. This wasn’t a museum. Not a display. Just part of the yard.
The man noticed his glance, nodded, and walked over to one of the vessels. He lifted the lid, dipped in a ladle, and carefully poured the wine into a simple glass. Then handed it to Greg.
— Try it.
Greg took the glass. The color—the same. Amber. But now it no longer surprised him.
He stopped comparing. He simply tasted
He took a sip. And immediately felt the difference. This wasn’t the wine from the bar. It was more alive, a little uneven, as if less “interpreted.”
And at the same time—more real.
— Good? — the man asked.
Greg paused for a moment.
— Yes, — he said. — Just… different.
The man smiled.
— Everything here is different.
A pause.
— It’s from those grapes, — he nodded toward the vine. — Ours.
Greg looked at the glass again. There was no wine list here. No descriptions. No attempt to please. No one is explaining the “notes.” No one is telling him how to drink it “properly.”
— How long have you been making it? — he asked.
The man shrugged.
— Always.
And then added, more quietly:
— My father did. My grandfather did.
Greg nodded. He took another sip. And suddenly realized that, for the first time, he had stopped searching for something familiar in the wine.
Sometimes, to understand something new, you first have to let go of what you expect. Orange—or amber—wines turned out not to be a passing trend or an experiment for its own sake.
They were something else. Something older. A slower way of perceiving. And perhaps a more honest one.
But to truly understand it, there was only one place. The place where it had never been considered unusual.
That was where Greg was heading next.
He had stopped looking for the familiar. And, for the first time, was beginning to understand
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