The wines of central Europe are often overlooked by Asian collectors, but they’re worth a detour
As wine grows more popular in Asia, the market has blossomed from highly conservative to increasingly adventurous. Even exotic regions like Georgia and Greece are gaining favour here. Yet some famous wine areas of central Europe still get scant attention.
For the sake of simplicity (and eschewing controversy), by central Europe, I mean most of what lies between France and the former USSR—Germany, certainly, as well as Austria, Hungary, the Czech Republic, Slovakia and Poland. That might also include the Balkans and possibly Switzerland. It’s a region with a difficult history: carved up, horse traded, fluid in identity, but rich with the syncretic potential that frequently arises in borderlands.
Let’s set Germany aside because it has arguably already wooed Asian markets with its riesling, either semi-sweet and quaffable, or ultra-luxurious and collectable like Keller’s pricey G-Max or the botrytis wines of Egon Müller and JJ Prüm. Austrian wine, by contrast, has conquered Europe and the US but never quite penetrated Asia. Hungary, home to the exquisite sweets of Tokaj, has suffered such cruel setbacks in reputation and, sadly, quality over the past centuries that it is only now beginning to reclaim its once-illustrious standing. Market awareness of any other central European wine plummets from there.
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I grew familiar with central European wine through a project I embarked on several years ago with partners in Austria, including the Almásy noble family of The English Patient fame, called the Almásy Collection. Our idea was to source wines made from central Europe’s traditional grape varieties and unite them under a single brand. We felt the region’s combination of strengths (historical regions and a unique identity) and challenges (confusing geography and unpronounceable names) made it fertile ground.
Almásy wines aren’t yet widely available outside Burg Bernstein (the Almásy family home) but while sourcing we happily discovered that central Europe is already rich with pioneers revitalising their regions. Thanks to unique grapes like Bulgaria’s mavrud or Hungary’s hárslevelű, the wines deliver more nuance than another cabernet might. But they also symbolise a belief in redemption, the hope that with sufficient determination something thought long lost can be rescued from the edge of oblivion.
On the following pages is my abbreviated guide to each country (in light of ongoing travel limitations, I’ve tried to limit myself to wines available in Asia).
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Austria
Austria is best known for grüner veltliner, its riposte to Germany’s riesling. This spicy, pungent grape is used for everything from the cheap and cheerful bottles enjoyed at vinous brewpubs called “Heuriger” to the resinous dry whites grown on stone terraces in the Danube-hugging Wachau. If you only try one Austrian wine, let it be a grüner veltliner.
Meanwhile the traditional red grapes of Austria, blaufränkisch and St Laurent, should be catnip to Burgundy lovers. Legend has it that the sturdier blaufränkisch, which made its way to Austria around the 10th century, arrived from France, while the ethereal St Laurent is a member of the pinot family and more likely Burgundian.
To my taste, blaufränkisch has a syrah-like peppery charm and assertively purple fruit; at its best it starts to resemble nebbiolo, with a heady zephyr of cabbage roses. St Laurent has the chimeric nature of pinot noir with an extra serving of base notes; it is by turns fruity, earthy, floral or fleshy, straddling the line between delectation and disgust. Both grapes benefit from being embraced by young winemakers whose ambitions are complemented by sensitive attunement to their grapes’ distinctiveness.