Darlings, I've danced through harvest parties on three continents, but nothing β nothing β prepared me for my first Rtveli. This is Georgia's ancient grape-harvest celebration: entire villages spilling into the vineyards at dawn, picking by hand, singing vintage folk songs, and ending the day in a supra β a feast where toasts are an art form and the wine never stops flowing. And where better to lose myself in it than ChΓ’teau Mukhrani, Georgia's original royal chΓ’teau winery? Founded in 1878 by Prince Ivane Mukhranbatoni of the Bagrationi dynasty β who fell in love with the French chΓ’teau concept and built the first one on Georgian soil β the estate's palace and gardens were designed by French architects, all pale stone, rose gardens and century-old trees, just 30-odd minutes from Tbilisi. Early October in Kartli: warm sun, amber leaves, the season's first pressing of amber wine in the air. I packed my twirliest sundress. Obviously.
Sunday morning and the gardens are already singing β long supra tables dressed in white linen, bread and peaches and churchkhela everywhere, string lights waiting patiently in the trees for dusk. I couldn't sit still: one glass of golden qvevri wine aloft and I was spinning between the tables, my terracotta sundress catching the October sun, laughing at absolutely everything. This is what Rtveli does to people. Resistance is futile.
Every great party has that moment when the whole world shrinks to one conversation. Mine came mid-afternoon at the long table with my new Georgian friend β heads together over khachapuri, glasses of Rkatsiteli Qvevri 2019 just touching. This is the wine that made me fall for Georgia: fermented in qvevri, the enormous clay vessels buried in the earth that Georgia has used for 8,000 years (UNESCO listed the practice as Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2013, darling β I drink heritage). Skin-contact gold, dried apricot, walnut, a whisper of honey. She told me a joke in Georgian, I laughed before I understood it, and honestly? Correct response.
And then the light did that thing. The party softened into a golden murmur, someone switched on the string lights, and I surrendered β daybed, wool throw, shoes long gone, a glass of Goruli Mtsvane 2022 resting against my knee. Kartli's own white grape: voluptuous, honeyed, with a line of acidity that keeps you honest. The 1878 palace glowed rose-gold behind me and I thought about Prince Ivane β he built all this because he believed Georgian wine deserved a chΓ’teau of its own. I raised my glass to him. He'd have liked my dress, I think.
π Eight thousand years of winemaking and Georgia still keeps the best parties almost to itselfβ¦ I nearly didn't tell you. Next stop: back to school, my loves β someone has to keep the world's wine students honest, and it might as well be the girl with the amber-stained smile. Wear something the harvest would approve of. π
