My First Wine Cellar Experience.
In 1991 I was living in Germany. Christmas was just days away, and I was facing the prospect of another holiday alone when an invitation came from a friend of a friend. I don’t even remember the family’s name, only that they lived in a small suburb of Frankfurt, Germany near Mannheim. Their house was warm, inviting, and they were very gracious hosts.
Though I was shocked that their sole decorations on the live Christmas tree were real candles, I participated in the lighting of them. We sang carols together by the piano with the mother playing, singing in German and English. With the delicate smells of fresh bread, roasting duck and pine floating in the air, my host asked me if I wanted to go into his wine cellar to choose a bottle of wine.
My introduction to wine had really just begun at that point. Earlier in the fall, I had helped my good friend Gerhard Hugenschmidt’s family harvest their small but robust 5 acre vineyard. Germany has tight controls on all aspects of the industry, including how many tons per square acre could be planted, when and how much the vines were to be pruned and so on. Gerhard had received a letter from the local wine commune stating the day and even the very time, 9:55am that they were to begin harvesting. Each bunch of grapes was taste tested, and was handled with great care.
Once all of the grapes were picked, they were taken to the commune who then pressed them into juice. That juice was then tested for sugar content and Gerhard was paid on the amount of sugar, measured in bricks, that was in the juice. The higher the brick count, the higher the pay rate. 1991 was a very warm year with lots of sun and the grapes were very sweet, so it was a nice payday for them. To celebrate, the local community hosted a Wine Festival a week later. The drink being celebrated was “neu Wein”, or New Wine, that was infact only one week old. It was cloudy, sweet and had the appearance of milk. I only found out too late how potent it was.
Fresh off of that experience, I had only begun to catch thewine bug, but the experience I was about to have in a small, anonymous German cellar would ensure that the infatuation would continue to grow, deepen, and influence the rest of my life.
As I accepted my hosts offer to go down into his cellar, his wife mentioned that this wasindeed an honor, as he very rarely took guests into the cellar. After opening a door under the stairs in the basement of his 300 year old house, I was surprised to see yet another, smaller door that was padlocked. After opening this door, my host led me through a dirt tunnel, both of us crawling on our hands and knees.
The tunnel was lined with dusty cobwebs that had obviously been there for quite some time, and I can still remember the moldy, dirt smell that hit our nostirls as we finally stood up in the literal wine "cave" that had been carved out of the hard dirt/rock. It was maybe 4 feet by 4 feet by 6 feet tall, and was lined with rickety wine racks and a tiny table holding dusty glasses and a lone candle. My host lit the candle to reveal a little over 100 bottles, most so old they had no labels left. He had identified these bottles by wrapping a thin wire around the neck andattaching a small piece of paper to it. After a silent, intense studying of some bottles, he pulled one from the rack.
Sadly, I don’t remember the vintage or the wine maker, but as he uncorked the bottle and poured me the honorary taste in a dusty wine glass, I knew that wine would forever be a part of my life.
In 1991 I was living in Germany. Christmas was just days away, and I was facing the prospect of another holiday alone when an invitation came from a friend of a friend. I don’t even remember the family’s name, only that they lived in a small suburb of Frankfurt, Germany near Mannheim. Their house was warm, inviting, and they were very gracious hosts.
Though I was shocked that their sole decorations on the live Christmas tree were real candles, I participated in the lighting of them. We sang carols together by the piano with the mother playing, singing in German and English. With the delicate smells of fresh bread, roasting duck and pine floating in the air, my host asked me if I wanted to go into his wine cellar to choose a bottle of wine.
My introduction to wine had really just begun at that point. Earlier in the fall, I had helped my good friend Gerhard Hugenschmidt’s family harvest their small but robust 5 acre vineyard. Germany has tight controls on all aspects of the industry, including how many tons per square acre could be planted, when and how much the vines were to be pruned and so on. Gerhard had received a letter from the local wine commune stating the day and even the very time, 9:55am that they were to begin harvesting. Each bunch of grapes was taste tested, and was handled with great care.
Once all of the grapes were picked, they were taken to the commune who then pressed them into juice. That juice was then tested for sugar content and Gerhard was paid on the amount of sugar, measured in bricks, that was in the juice. The higher the brick count, the higher the pay rate. 1991 was a very warm year with lots of sun and the grapes were very sweet, so it was a nice payday for them. To celebrate, the local community hosted a Wine Festival a week later. The drink being celebrated was “neu Wein”, or New Wine, that was infact only one week old. It was cloudy, sweet and had the appearance of milk. I only found out too late how potent it was.
Fresh off of that experience, I had only begun to catch thewine bug, but the experience I was about to have in a small, anonymous German cellar would ensure that the infatuation would continue to grow, deepen, and influence the rest of my life.
As I accepted my hosts offer to go down into his cellar, his wife mentioned that this wasindeed an honor, as he very rarely took guests into the cellar. After opening a door under the stairs in the basement of his 300 year old house, I was surprised to see yet another, smaller door that was padlocked. After opening this door, my host led me through a dirt tunnel, both of us crawling on our hands and knees.
The tunnel was lined with dusty cobwebs that had obviously been there for quite some time, and I can still remember the moldy, dirt smell that hit our nostirls as we finally stood up in the literal wine "cave" that had been carved out of the hard dirt/rock. It was maybe 4 feet by 4 feet by 6 feet tall, and was lined with rickety wine racks and a tiny table holding dusty glasses and a lone candle. My host lit the candle to reveal a little over 100 bottles, most so old they had no labels left. He had identified these bottles by wrapping a thin wire around the neck andattaching a small piece of paper to it. After a silent, intense studying of some bottles, he pulled one from the rack.
Sadly, I don’t remember the vintage or the wine maker, but as he uncorked the bottle and poured me the honorary taste in a dusty wine glass, I knew that wine would forever be a part of my life.
posted by Atlas Wine Products | 4:36 PM
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