when the fruit is ripe

Two hours drive from Tbilisi, Telavi presents itself. A small city, more than a village, with modern coffee shops and traffic roundabouts. The castle (or maybe I should call it a fortress) is older than old, some of the structures going back to 1664. The brick walkways have been swept clean and stray dogs wander in the sun, as winemakers set up tables, as today’s performers do a sound check. A woman sings a Georgian lullaby I recognize, but there is no baby - a cradle full of fresh grapes instead. The celebration is called stveli, meaning “when the fruit is ripe.” I have been invited to judge some wine, and collaborate on a blend that is named after a Georgian King named Irakli, or Erekle, or Heraclius (it is hard to translate Georgian to English). The blend requires four grapes, amber wines aged in qvevri (a large clay amphora) which may or may not involve the skins and vines from the grapes, and only for a certain amount of time. Rkatsiteli, Kisi, Khikvi and Mtsvane in any ratio are “the King’s blend.” Part of the day’s work is finding four wines made from these four grapes (from any winemaker) that play well together. It is a Frankstein blend, as the normal process is for one winemaker to blend their own vintages but the big idea is to find some synergy, to get the grapes from one vineyard to talk to the grapes from another. Our Franken-blend has its heart in the right place.

Throngs of people arrive, some all dressed up, some with small children, great smiles stretching across their faces, curious and relaxed, the sun sinking into their very bones on this late summer Saturday.

The judging is hectic, lots of words to translate, and the wine is warm which makes things so difficult. Smelling, sipping, chewing, rolling around, going back for a second look, turning an experience into a row of numbers seems so cruel. I do not pull any punches, and just try to pace myself. Winemakers are visiting the table, bringing extra surprise bottles to consider. This is Georgia, and a certain amount of chaos and last-minute surprises are the norm. They stand in their festival aprons, hands on hips, wondering what we are thinking, what we are writing. Their work is beyond difficult, and any medal, any piece of paper with their name on it is a huge shot in the arm.

We start each blend with equal parts of each wine, and it is fascinating how one eclipses the others. Going back, adjusting the ratio, the sweet spot presents itself. In the end we create 3 King Irakli blends, with wines from ten vineyards. The names are written on fancy paper, the head judge Zaza signs them, and then we agree to individual awards, within the established categories. I am sorry that the best wine of the day is not eligible, and end up talking with the winemakers for some time, as the sun drifts down into the horizon, as the singing and dancing and fight-dancing and the thank you’s and the speeches unwind. They have those great big eyes that so many young winemakers have, scratching their heads trying to understand how a guy from Brooklyn judged their wine today and found it lovely, something beyond their wishes and imagination. There are humble people in the world, and then there are Georgian winemakers, which takes this to a whole new level. We talk about life, about our daughters, and somehow the whole circus has packed itself up and just the stray dogs are wandering around now. I offer to buy a bottle and they refuse to let me pay, pressing it into my hands, as Georgians do.

Later, we are invited to a dinner at a local vineyard. The table seems to stretch on into infinity, already decorated with pickled wildflowers called jonjoli, with fresh bread and cold chicken, and bowls of a cold walnut sauce called bazhe, and slabs of fresh cheese, with rolls of eggplant stuffed with nuts decorated with pomegranate seeds and this is just the amuse bouche, something to pick at before the meal truly begins. The people arrive, the performers from today including the young woman that sang that magical lullaby, and the waves of food wash over us, simmered and roasted meats, hachipuri, mtsvade, sour plum sauce called tkemali, great meat dumplings called khinkali, bowls of tomatoes and cucumbers doused in sunflower oil, and more that I cannot even remember. Great carafes of cold local wine are poured, and the toasts run long, epic wandering roads that people listen to with sober faces. Young and old, sprinkled with a few foreigners, the supra (the name of both the dinner and the table) is a classic. Jokes are made, a football game is on and our feisty Georgian team makes the first goal and everyone jumps around and shouts like we just climbed Everest.

There is a ride home, the road dark and twisted, belly full, head swimming with wine and the details of the day, until I finally climb our stairs and here are N and V, waiting for me, and I pull that gift bottle from the winemakers and put it on the dining room table like a trophy.