Glassware

A small silver cup from Trialeti in Kvemo Kartli dates to the eighteenth or seventeenth century BCE. Found in a burial mound, it now stands in the National Museum in Tbilisi. On it, twenty-two masked men parade past nine deer with raised drinking bowls — one of the oldest known drinking scenes in the world. Even then, evidently, there was more at stake than mere thirst.

To this day, Georgians drink from the khantsi at festive occasions — a hollowed-out buffalo horn without a stand. Once raised, it must be emptied in a single draught. For everyday use at the table, though, the horn is of little use. It reveals neither color nor clarity, and its opening funnels no aroma — and that is exactly where the job of a proper wine glass begins.

For Atenuri, the sparkling wine made from Chinuri, a narrow tulip glass will do. It holds the perlage for longer and is served chilled, at six to eight degrees Celsius, like a white wine, not ice-cold. Amber Chinuri from the qvevri needs more room. A rounder glass, similar to a small white wine goblet, lets the tannins from skin-contact fermentation unfold without the wine coming across as aggressive. It's served warmer than an ordinary white wine, at ten to twelve degrees, or its most interesting notes stay locked away.

Tavkveri takes to a slimmer glass than a hefty red wine would. Its pale color and delicate tannins taste best lightly chilled, at twelve to fourteen degrees, or it quickly comes across as thin. Shavkapito, by contrast, more powerful and spicier, can go into a somewhat wider glass. Poured two degrees warmer, it reveals its peppery side. In the end, the same principle applies to all four wines: the glass should give the wine room to breathe without overwhelming it — much as that goblet from Trialeti likely did nearly four thousand years ago.