Natasha Sumkina writes originally from Saint Petersburg and now based in the Basque Country, I began learning about wine to change my life. And it did. In just five years, I’ve earned my DipWSET, worked as a wine import manager, founded a tasting club (named after my dog), launched a blog and podcast, and even led tastings for an underwater winery. With a background in linguistics, I see wine as a language: one I’m still learning to speak, and eager to share in ways that connect, resonate, and inspire.
This one is for my mum. Thank you for always encouraging me to try new things
The original sip
Funny how memory works. Last weekend? Gone. The name of someone I just met? A blur. But a single whiff of wine, and suddenly you’re in Paris, almost fifteen years ago.
It’s a café. You remember white tablecloths, messy oyster shells scattered across the table, slabs of rye bread, softened butter, slices of lemon, and little dishes of vinegar. The waiters rushing past like bees. The 18th-century décor, Napoleon’s hat, portraits of Enlightenment thinkers and revolutionaries on the walls. The oldest café in Paris, they say.
“Should we order a bottle of wine? I know just the one you’re going to like.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
One of our group calls over the waiter and whispers the name of the wine. I’m still a teenager, and it’s my third time in Paris with my mum. I have absolutely no clue about wine, and honestly, I don’t care what they order. My previous encounters with wine hadn’t been very successful. I was more fascinated by the oysters and butter, because that’s something I could actually understand and enjoy.
The waiter comes back with an elongated green bottle. Its yellow and gold label glints under the light. The shape is elegant, unfamiliar, even exotic. I’ve never seen bottles like that before. I’m intrigued.
They pour the wine into our glasses: a pale, golden liquid that catches the candlelight.
“No, not for me, thanks, Mum.”
“Come on, just try a sip. It’s amazing!”
I take the glass reluctantly, trying to maintain the façade of a rebellious teenager. I bring it slowly to my nose and sniff. I’d seen grown-ups do it, so I mimic them, half-mocking, half-curious.
Oh. That’s actually… nice.
All my skepticism disappears. I’m genuinely curious now. The wine smells like flowers, like Grandma’s summer garden. Roses after rain. Jasmine in June.
I take a sip, and something shifts.
Suddenly, my taste buds are alive. I swear I can feel my brain clapping with joy, composing a mental ode to the wine.
I realize: I might actually be a wine person.
But I don’t want to seem uneducated (which is silly, I know, I was only 18), so instead of asking what it is, I take the bottle and try to read the label. And fail miserably. It’s in German. But I’d heard the waiter say it was from France. I keep staring. It says Alsace.
I study the label like it’s a treasure map. I can’t read the name, but I commit every curve and color to memory. That image burns itself in so deep that for years afterward, I’d spot the bottle instantly—whether in a Paris shop or a duty-free shelf halfway across the world.
Maybe that’s where it started. This quiet obsession with things I didn’t yet understand. Later, I’d go on to study German at university, and finally, I’d learn to pronounce the name. A few years after that, I’d make a bigger decision—to quit being a translator and study wine instead.
And then I’d finally understand the grape that opened my eyes. I’d learn that its name means “spiced,” a nod to its flamboyant aromatic profile. I’d find out that it thrives in Alsace, a region tucked between the Vosges mountains and the Rhine, where the climate and diverse soils give it both power and perfume. I’d discover that what I called “Grandma’s garden” was actually rose, lychee, peach, mango, cinnamon, honey—a kaleidoscope of scent and flavor.
It stayed with me, that bottle. Years later, I’d finally trace its roots, peeling back the layers of what once felt like magic to uncover the science and tradition behind it.
But then came the eye-rolls. I was laughed at for saying it was my favorite grape.
Too sweet. Too loud. Low acidity. Too hard to pair with food. Too… obvious.
So what? I say.
It’s a stunning wine when done right—when producers manage to balance ripeness with freshness. It shines with Thai food, foie gras, or pungent cheeses like Munster.
I especially love how unmistakable it is. In a blind tasting, it’s a gift. You’ll never confuse it with anything else. And it smashes through the “neutral white wine” mold like a glorious, perfumed wrecking ball.
Yes, it’s polarizing. And that’s why I love it.
Captivating to some, too much for others. Like Jay Gatsby. Wes Anderson. Or Bridgerton.
Today, I’m a wine professional. I’ve tasted thousands of wines. I forget most of them, especially their names.
But I’ll never forget Gewürztraminer by Gustave Lorentz, the wine that first whispered to me in Paris, and still speaks louder than most. Perfumed, unforgettable, and entirely itself.
