Natalia Suta writes hi, I’m Natalia, wine writer, educator, and recovering wine snob. I spend my days teaching, writing, and speaking about wine in a way that’s accessible, inclusive, and (hopefully!) never boring. I love helping people discover their own taste and encouraging them to break the wine rules they thought they had to follow. I also consider it entirely legitimate to call drinking on a Monday “research.”
It’s always been you
For years, I kept you a secret. I thought admitting you were my favourite was too obvious and too basic. I thought that as a wine lover I needed to be cosmopolitan, sophisticated, and elusive. I dodged the “What’s your favourite grape variety?” question with long monologues about how I loved all the varieties, from a Croatian Malvazija with a touch of skin contact to a Swiss Divico that is brooding with juicy notes of black cherry and tattoo ink. I felt impossibly busy and important throwing around names that were anything but you: Schoppettino, Moschofilero, or Brancellao. But as I sang praises to the obscure, you were always in my fridge. Always waiting. Always ready.
You see, when I entered the world of wine many harvests ago, I was searching for prestige and recognition. I was a wine snob. Do you remember how I got mad when Janice served me Beaujolais at room temperature? Or how I refused to have drinks at Stephen’s because he didn’t have a set of fancy decanters? It took me a long time to understand that appreciating wine had nothing to do with expensive Riedel glasses, first-growth Bordeaux, and being able to pick up that 2% of Petit Verdot in the blend. And when I finally got that, it was liberating. I started buying non-vintage Champagne, mixing red wine with coke, and adding ice to my rosés and my whites (but don’t worry, I would never do that to you). I could finally start answering the “What’s your favourite grape variety?” question with more ease, honesty, and maturity. And from that moment onwards, you have been forever on my lips.
You were the first grape variety that I ever learnt about and picked knowingly at the supermarket. I remember the moment as if it was yesterday. Our eyes locked in the Alsace section and you smiled at me with your clean label and Tesco Clubcard offer. I took you home. You took me everywhere. No matter how many fashionable new grapes I tried, I could never quite get over you. You were the first crush, my high school sweetheart, if you will. I fell in love with your aromatic profile (no one can smell of apricot and jasmine like you), your versatility, and your ageing potential (not that I would ever have the patience to age you for three decades).
That said, it did annoy me that you were so well-known and no one’s jaw ever dropped when I mentioned your name. I sometimes had to dress you up in a lesser-known fact or fancy jargon to impress others with my wine knowledge. You hated that, I know. You never needed the bells and whistles, and part of me was impressed by your total disregard for prestige and status. You knew you were the king of grapes, anyway. I mean, you can go from bone-dry to lusciously sweet without ever losing your poise. You are elegant without being overbearing. You are complex without pretense. You are timeless without trying.
Much as I was trying to pretend you were just a phase and that I would inevitably get bored with you, you kept surprising me. One day you’d be all Sicilian lemon and slate, the next, ripe mango and petrol. Naturally, I couldn’t resist peeling back the layers. I’ve spent countless evenings analysing the terroir out of you, chasing every nuance and every shift on the palate, trying to capture you into tasting notes worthy of Andrew Jefford, only to realise that you can’t be captured – not in one tasting note. No wonder people write books about you. And that’s when it hit me: you were never too obvious, let alone basic.
I went from sheepishly admitting you were my favourite to preaching your USPs with the zeal of a convert. I started pouring you for guests at dinner parties, buying you as gifts, and slipping you into blind tastings. It’s been priceless to see the look of disbelief on people’s faces – followed by a nod of respect (one for the ego!) – when I reveal it’s Riesling in their glass. When I tell people how versatile you are, they think I am exaggerating. I’m not. You go with pork belly, spicy curry, fresh sea bass, or nothing at all. You’re happy being poured into crystal glasses in Michelin restaurants, or sipped from paper cups in parks. You can charm the friend who only drinks “dry whites” and the one who claims they hate wine but suddenly asks for a second glass. You are the wine, the myth, the legend.
Sometimes people still wrinkle their nose when I say your name – I can’t really be friends with them. And I suspect they’ve never really listened to what you have to say. Maybe they’ve only met your off-dry side at a budget wedding reception or drank you lukewarm from a pub’s sticky glassware, and then never gave you a second chance. Their loss.
I’ve stopped caring about trying to impress others with my grape choices. You’ve kicked the snob out of me. I’m sorry for all those years I wasted being on the fence. I’m sorry I dodged the truth for so long. It’s time I said it openly. Thank you, Riesling – it’s always been you.
