Georgia sits in the South Caucasus, between the Black Sea and the mountains, and it has the strongest claim of anywhere to being the place wine began. In 2017 a team led by the molecular archaeologist Patrick McGovern published chemical evidence of wine in pottery from two Neolithic villages south of Tbilisi, Gadachrili Gora and Shulaveris Gora, dated to 6000–5800 BC. That is roughly eight thousand years ago.
What makes Georgia remarkable is not only the age but the continuity — the method never really stopped. Wine is still fermented in a qvevri, a large egg-shaped clay vessel sealed inside with beeswax and buried up to its neck in the floor of the cellar, or marani. UNESCO added the qvevri method to its Intangible Cultural Heritage list in 2013. Wine here is social infrastructure: the supra, the Georgian feast, is steered by a tamada, a toastmaster who leads the table through a long sequence of toasts.
What Georgian wine tastes like
Amber wine is the thing to understand first. White grapes go into the qvevri with their skins, stems and pips and stay there for months — a white grape handled exactly like a red. What comes out is not a crisp white at all.
Expect a deep amber colour, aromas of dried apricot, orange peel, walnut and black tea, and then the surprise: tannin, the grippy, stewed-tea drying sensation you normally meet in red wine. These wines are savoury rather than fruity, and they want food.
Saperavi, the main red, is one of very few grapes with red flesh as well as red skin, so the wines are almost opaque. Think dark plum and damson, brisk acidity, firm structure and a spicy, bitter-cherry finish. Serve amber wines cool but not cold; chilled too hard they lose the aromatics that make them interesting.

