Four Minds, One Goal: Truth in the Glass

There were four of us: Neno, managing director of WeinArt, who doesn’t just love mature classics—he lives them. His wife Iris, sharp-witted, charming, with easily the most precise palate at the table. Grigol, the quiet strategist, a walking encyclopedia with razor-sharp takes. And me—curious, excited, and, as it turned out, occasionally way off track.

Blind was the theme of the night. Every bottle came wrapped, poured into white glasses. Only the color gave us a clue. The rest? Pure guesswork.

Schlossberg, Latour & a 1947 Bourgogne That Shattered Expectations

The youngest wine? 2003. A 2003 Breuer Berg Schlossberg. The oldest? A 1947 Bourgogne Rouge from Colombet. Not a Grand Cru. Not even a Premier Cru. Just a basic, humble Bourgogne. And there it stood—fresh, vibrant, full of life.
How on earth can a 78-year-old entry-level Burgundy radiate that much energy? I was stunned. It was one of thosemoments—the kind that stay with you forever.
And it wouldn’t be the only one.

Latour 1978. Latour 1987. Not mythical vintages—but what wines! Cool, fine-boned, precise. Like liquid velvet with intellectual depth. Pure, timeless Bordeaux. No muscle, no theatrics. Just class.
And then came the curveball: a wine I mentally placed somewhere between the Nahe and old-school Rheingau turned out to be a mature Riesling from Alsace—slim, juicy, featherlight. A bold counterpoint to the region’s reputation for baroque richness, which, all too often, is still justified.

Lost? Maybe. Learned Something? Absolutely.

That’s what made the evening so exciting—nothing was certain, nothing predictable. We were all focused, open-minded, tuned in—and still, we missed the mark. By decades, sometimes. And you know what? It didn’t matter.
That was the beauty of it. Because nights like this aren’t about getting it right. They’re about understanding. About learning. About curiosity. And about humility.

Humility, too, in the face of one hard truth: acid doesn’t disappear. Not after 20 years. Not after 40. Wines from cool, challenging vintages show it with brutal honesty. Acidity stays. It can carry a wine—or cut through it. But it doesn’t vanish. That, too, was a lesson.

And one more: those old-school Bourgogne wines—the ’90s, the ’70s, even the late ’40s—can develop a tenderness and inner beauty that deeply moved me. Will today’s wines age the same way? I’m not sure. Alcohol levels pushing past 14%, heavy extraction, and cellar tech might stand in the way of elegance in the long run. Old-school Burgundy tastes different.

So What Remains?

What did I take away from that night? A lot. But most of all: respect.
Respect for the winemakers who worked under entirely different conditions decades ago—and still made wines that speak to us today.
Respect for the curation—because nights like these don’t just happen.
And most of all, respect for the openness in the room. The willingness to be wrong, to take a guess, to laugh at yourself, to think out loud and discover together—that’s what made this evening great.

Thank you, Neno. For this legendary night. For the bottles. For the stories behind each one. For the trust.
I won’t forget it anytime soon. And if you ever text me again—“Come on, this one’s big”—
I’ll be there. No questions asked.