NOVEMBER 2026: THE ANCIENT WAYS OF ANCIENT CLAYS

A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to travel to Georgia (country, not state) to spend a few days learning about its 8,000-year winemaking tradition. To put it into perspective, that’s a tradition nearly 6,000 years older than Rome’s. Contemporaries with the Sumerians and Etruscans, who obviously do not exist anymore, the Georgians refer to themselves as the Kartvelebi and the country as Sakartvelo (Western culture imposed the title Georgia in the 12th century, as Western culture tends to do). And despite— perhaps because of—having been invaded consistently by the rest of the world throughout the millennia, including most recently the Soviets from 1921 to 1991, the Georgians’ sense of pride and sovereignty is unshakeable. It’s symbolized by the Mother of Georgia who overlooks the city, a sword in one hand to cut down enemies, a cup of wine in the other to welcome in friends. It’s also symbolized by the unbroken tradition of making wine in qvevri (pronounced kweh-vree), huge clay pots nestled beneath the earth in almost every wine cellar, which act as fermentation jars and aging vessels, a kind of spiritual conductor. 

These vessels, which feel as if they are imbued with a mystical quality made over the course of weeks by masters clay workers who do nothing else, are what inspired this month’s wine club dedicated to the magic of qvevri, amphora, and terracotta. That clay has persisted as a vessel for winemaking since ancient times underscores its fundamental usefulness, but also speaks to a notion of wisdom helpful in these times: the old ways are true ways, and we return to them again and again because they have something to teach us. —Leslie Pariseau

Iago "Chinuri" Amber, Kartli, Georgia 2023

Iago Bitarishvili is the picture postcard version of a vigneron. Lean, lithe, and dressed in weatherproof gear, he leans against his clay pots as if they are old friends as he unravels an exegesis on the merits of qvevri versus amphora, the deep attention to cleaning and maintaining these porous vessels, plus a side of history on the great qvevri masters of another century who spent weeks making a single pot to a winemaker’s specifications. Bitarishvili is one of Georgia’s most important winemakers, championing the Chinuri grape from his 2-hectare plot of 60-year-old vines in the Mukhran Valley of the Kartli region. The first winemaker to have his land certified as organic, Bitarishvili is a quiet force, defying the external assumption that most Georgian white wines are treated with skin contact and aged in clay.

He explains, as he methodically uncaps his own pet-nat with a pair of metal tongs on his front porch, that adding skins to make amber wines is not a given—he loves making fresh white wines without a hint of skin—and he’s begun experimenting with moving his wines from qvevri after primary and malolactic fermentation into above-ground Chinese amphora to complete their slumber before bottling. The wine in this club is, however, a skin contact or amber wine, as it’s called in Georgia. It’s been aged for its life in a giant underground pot, longer than usual—six to seven months—as intuited by Bitarishvili’s inner clock. Indigenous to Georgia, the Chinuri grape is a high-acid variety that makes crisp, crunchy white and sumptuously structured amber wines, which I’d wager would age for a bit if you can hide this bottle from yourself. However, this is also wine meant for the pleasure of now, its lightly spiced tangerine aromas so wonderfully typical of the Georgian profile. It’s clean, silky, and, in my experience, pairs well with fresh, salty cheese and a sunset overlooking Iago’s yard. —LP

Domaine de la Combe au Mas "Rico" Ventoux Rouge, Rhône Valley, France 2024

We’re lucky to have the niche wines of Thomas and Marie-Sophie Ayoun, a couple located at the foot of Mont Ventoux at the fringes of the Alps. Ventoux is often called “the giant of Provence” and is a staggering climb for bikers in the Tour-de-France who would likely be pleased to meet this lovely couple upon their descent. Their eight hectares are integrated with organics and polyculture, with all wines undergoing aging in giant century-old clay pots Thomas sourced from the south of Spain.

The Rico is a blend of red and white fruit—80% Syrah macerated quickly and blended with 20% Grenache Blanc, Roussanne, Vermentino, and Clairette—a style recently dubbed “blouge,” which, in another era, might have been called clairet or vin clair by the aristocrats, also known as chillable red or glou glou wine today. After fermenting in stainless steel the blend is popped into 2000L amphorae for six months. Why amphora? Structurally, the clay embraces naturally occurring flavors and preserves purity of fruit, while allowing for mico-oxygenation; letting a little oxygen into the wine also occurs in oak vessels, except with the clay there’s no added oak flavor or as much evaporation. The result is a magnificent, ultra-transparent garnet colored wine with aromas of pink lady apple, sour cherry Fun Dip, and pink snap dragons with a curious salinity like salted plum candy. This wine reminds me of when a fancy sandwich spot does “tomato jam” that’s really just a very complex ketchup. I’d pair with cherry tomato, pink peppercorn, and roselle hibiscus.

To me, aging wine in amphorae allows it to do some slow, tantric breathwork. The resulting juice often has a smooth, round texture, subtle color shift, and, occasionally, a lactic aftertaste. Though it’s not directly reported anywhere on the internet, for its texture and flavor, I suspect this wine underwent malolactic fermentation, probably within those six months of wisping around in its big old amphorae— less dense warmer wine tends to rise, while cooler, less dense wine tends to sink, creating slow circulation currents—in a kind of lava lamp pattern, fine lees and other microbial bits lifting and whooshing as it completes its mystical alchemy. This infinite movement is an old pattern, mirrored in the currents rushing beneath the ocean’s surface and just beneath the earth’s crust, ancient as anything. —Ryan Plas

Gustavo Riffo "A Pelo" Moscatel Naranja, Itata Valley, Chile 2024

When I think about the use of clay for aging wine, I imagine Greek pottery and Roman times, a sentiment reflected in Gustavo Riffo’s bottlings. Riffo comes from a generational winemaking family in the Itata Valley of Chile. Pais and Moscatel d’Alexandia were brought there by the Spanish in the 1500s and have been thriving ever since along with the use of tinajas or large clay pots. For centuries, it has been commonplace for families to ferment and age their own wine stash in tinajas of various sizes, and while the tradition may have slipped away with modern times, producers such as Riffo, have brought it back into use for its timeless dependability.

Riffo’s “A Pelo” is a skin contact Moscatel d’Alexandria fermented in tinajas for almost a year, the amphora lending a sily texture and warm, worn minerality. It’s a gorgeous wine, layered with mango and jarred peaches, jasmine, and lemon verbena, reminiscent of a golden walk down memory lane. Moscatel (or muscat). Moscatel, or muscat, is an old grape variety with a rich history and ceremony in Chile where the vine pest phylloxera that devastated European vineyards in the mid-19th century never arrived. Here, the vines are own-rooted (meaning they have never been grafted) and preside with subtle strength at 80-years-old. That is to say, they produce deeply complex and truly terroir-driven fruit beautifully matched to the sage wisdom of clay pots. —Cassandra Vachon

Alex Craighead "Home Red No. 1" Nelson, New Zealand 2023

Australian Alex Craighead visited us at the shop last year all the way from Nelson, New Zealand, his adopted home, bringing a lineup of wines we leapt at carrying. The grapes in this bottling, a blend of Pinot Noir and Gamay with a bit of Pinot Gris, are grown at the northern tip of the archipelago’s South Island. Craighead told me he likes amphora because it breathes like oak, but without imparting flavor. He and his partner Josefina Venturino, a landscape architect from Argentina, use Spanish tinajas from Caceres, and bring their wines into contact with the clay in years when more tannin is present. In this case, the wine is deeply savoury, structured with minerality (perhaps lent partly from amphora and partly from the clay soils it’s grown in; double clay), excellent for holiday celebrations and chilly nights on the back porch with a quilt. —LP

Maison Advinam "L'Allumée Orange" Vin de France, Bordeaux, France 2024

The story of Maison Advinam and Anne Buiatti begins with a love of nature channeled into a career in agricultural engineering in the Languedoc, culminating in the purchase of two hectares in Calce and two hectares in Graves (opposite sides of France). Between the two, Buiatti grows Cabernet Sauvignon, Malbec, Merlot, Semillon, Sauvignon Blanc, and Syrah, bringing them all together at her winery St. Morillon, just south of Bordeaux.

Her process is a true labor of love for both wine and the natural world. Buiatti works biodynamically, which is to say that the farm, vineyards, and winery are a self-sustaining ecosystem using composts, herbal teas, and silicas to enrich the soils and plants. She even uses beeswax from her bees to seal the bottles as you’ll notice when you uncork yours. The winery itself is without electricity and she uses amphora and old barrels to age everything.

The L'Allumée is a blend of Sémillon, Sauvignon Blanc and Muscadelle with two months of skin contact. On the palate, it’s fresh and lively with apricot, citrus peel, and a zippy acidity rounded out with musky white flowers reminiscent of vintage perfume. In a region as hidebound as Bordeaux, it’s beautiful to see something older and wilder emerge from pure imagination, an insight into what humans can do when they listen to nature and its older ways. —CV