The reds, mostly from the inky saperavi grape, were massive. The “whites,” mainly rkatsiteli, came out amber, concentrated, tannic—months of skin contact will do that. They had what I call digestibility. Their real calling card, though, was being made in kvevri: clay pots buried underground, tended by hand, cooled by the earth. Once dismissed by Soviet planners as backward, they’re now recognized by UNESCO as Intangible Cultural Heritage. A small but devoted cadre of natural winemakers—Pheasant’s Tears, Iago’s Wine, Archil Guniava Wine Cellars—brought the tradition roaring back, cheered on by natural wine lovers. Still, in Georgia, a country steeped in Orthodoxy and patriarchy, wine has long been a man’s game. Even now, I’m often the only woman at wine dinners.

When I first started coming to Georgia, I could tell you in broad brushtrokes what its wine was like—where it came from, who was making it well, what it tasted like. Fifteen years and 25 trips later, that’s impossible. This museum piece has grown wings. The explosion of grape varieties unseen a decade ago is staggering. Phylloxera and Soviet monoculture had whittled Georgia’s hundreds of native grapes down to a handful. Now, each year seems to deliver another “new” unpronounceable name pulled from the pre-Soviet past: dondghlabi, jghia, aladasturi, mgaloblishvili …

As natural winemakers revive Georgia's ancient grapes, conventional wineries have begun piling on, cashing in on the kvevri craze with European varieties and industrial yeasts—tidier wines, maybe, but far less interesting. Still, it's the natural producers who set the tone. They make tiny quantities, which only adds to the allure, and theirs are the bottles that end up on Michelin-starred lists—Noma, for one.

The growth in Georgia’s natural wine world is immense—and thrilling. But as a cynic, I wondered if it could also bring unwanted change. So, curious, I traveled to the country last month, just minutes before harvest. I wanted to hear from new voices and revisit old ones, to see where everything was headed with a more critical eye. Had modern techniques crept in and diluted the tradition? Was long skin contact—which gives Georgian wines their power—still in fashion, or were lighter styles trickling in? One thing was certain: What I’d find would be a far cry from the chocolate-and-vanilla homogeneity of the Soviet era.

These days in Tbilisi, I might be poured a pet-nat, a West Georgian wine made in Kakheti’s high-extraction style, a rosé or limpid garnet blending red and white grapes, or even a light-bodied saperavi. The old binary—big, inky reds or tannic amber whites—has been blown wide open. Kvevri remain the gold standard for the natural crowd, but alternative materials—wood and stainless steel, for instance—are losing their stigma. And one of the biggest changes, patriarchal structures notwithstanding, is the growing visibility of women in the industry.

One evening in 2013, I found myself at a supra (traditional feast) not far from Stalin’s birthplace, the dusty factory town of Gori. I was researching For the Love of Wine, my book on Georgia's revival of traditional and natural winemaking. At the table—yes, the only woman—I was spellbound by a juicy wine fermented on its skins for nine months. It glowed deep amber, tasting of orange blossom, with a green tea-like freshness. Then an old-school wine consultant sitting next to me disrupted the moment. The conversation had turned to who might become Georgia’s first female winemaker, and he suddenly exploded: “Women don’t make wine in Georgia!” The belief lingered that women didn’t belong in winemaking, as a menstruating woman would allegedly taint the product. At that moment, Marina Kurtanidze, a winemaker from Kartli, was about to break that glass ceiling with the release of her first bottle, a mtsvane. A year later, more women-made wine followed—and that trend shows no signs of slowing.

While outright prejudice against women winemakers is mostly a thing of the past, gossip still swirls. Some whisper that Kurtanidze’s husband, Iago, is the one who actually makes her wine. She laughs it off: “No disrespect—what don’t we do together?”

Jane Okruashvili of Sister’s Wines is often overlooked because her brother John (of Okro’s Wines) is the more famous family winemaker. But is her wine any less delicious? They share a marani—the Georgian word for wine cellar—in the picturesque hilltop village of Sighnaghi. All their wines are made in kvevri, and hers are consistently pleasurable, from light, sparkling whites to full-skin kisi. I asked Jane why she chose to call her project Sister’s Wines. Without irony, she said, “Because I’m Okro’s sister.”

It is possible for a woman to strike out on her own, without a male family member by her side—meet Natia Cheko. On a sweltering day in Terjola, Imereti, where she established her marani, White Mulberry, Cheko poured me the first of her three wines. She explained that at 33 she found a job at a wine bar—even though she didn’t like wine. But in Sighnaghi, at Pheasant’s Tears, she said with a full heart, “Wine entered my soul.” The wines she trained her palate on were not just some of the best in Georgia—they were among the finest natural wines in Europe.

When she was given a small plot of promising land, the male winemakers in her life encouraged her. More than the sturdy wines of Kakheti, her home region, the lighter wines of her adopted home resonated. The move suited her, and she reflected poetically on why: “In Kakheti, people are more serious and more emotional, like the wines. Here, the wines have less angst.”

Thirty minutes from Cheko, Archil Guniava embodies another kind of evolution. One of the original “fathers” of Georgia’s natural wine revival, Guniava’s cellar remains defiantly medieval—buried kvevri, no running water, no temperature control—yet his wines are more enchanting than ever. He works with the region’s ubiquitous whites, tsolikouri and tsitska, and increasingly explores rarer local varieties like low-tannin dzelshavi, rescued from the brink of extinction. It makes thought-provoking wine, savory and fruity (think pineau d’aunis). I was stunned, though, when I saw stainless steel tanks—a modern gleam in a centuries-old habitat. They weren’t used for fermentation but rather to store and age the wines for longevity, so he doesn’t have to bottle them before they’re ready.

It’s hardly a transgression—just a practical choice. Yet with all the experimentation in Georgian wine today—the new techniques, profiles, textures, and even types of clay vessels being used (such as Spanish tinajas)—one question keeps coming up: What, in the end, makes a wine truly Georgian?

Unpredictably, the biggest rising star is an expat: Aidan Rafferty. In 2019, he moved to Georgia from Australia for love. He married, had a child, and set up life in the ever-popular western region of Imereti. His little vineyard was tragically trampled by his neighbor’s cows after its first vintage, but until he replants, he buys fruit from plots he scouts from farmers he trusts. He ferments in old oak, acacia, and chestnut, as well as above-ground kvevri, producing lighter, west Georgian-style wines with his own twists, under the name Igavi Wines. One barrel holds a tsolikouri-based blend. It's already three years in, with four more to go, emulating the style of Jura’s vin jaune—a dry, sherry-like wine, and certainly a Georgian first.

I asked Rafferty, whose wines are exceptionally ethereal even by West Georgian standards, whether he felt obliged to make them taste “Georgian.” He smiled at the question and said, “I’m a foreigner making wine in a foreign way using local kvevri, local wood, and local grapes—so what about the wine isn’t Georgian, except me?”

Paired with several bottles, the question of what a Georgian wine is “supposed” to taste like could fuel a night-long debate. Should it adhere to its ancient roots, fixed in place, or is it allowed to move and breathe? Right now, the consensus is the latter. And breathe it will—deeply and fascinatingly—as a new generation steps in, shaped by travel and the world’s wines, while the older generation gradually fades, perhaps taking some of its secrets with it.

Exploring how the new generation is reinterpreting tradition, I sought out the Lotus Eaters—Maiko Zakaraia, Niko Turmanidze, and sisters Lela and Manana Jobava—a quartet of young friends who make wine both individually and collectively. For a year, I was asked time and again if I had tried their wines, so I was determined to see where the magic happens. I didn’t expect their “winery” to be in an abandoned house on the outskirts of Tbilisi—more like a squatter’s refuge, with blown-out windows. But it had been loaned to them for free, and it even came with a marani. Inside were kvevris, demijohns, and stainless-steel tanks.

Zakaraia, one of the Lotus Eaters, told me she had always appreciated feather-light natural wines—and that was exactly what she wanted to make. Talking with her, I found myself thinking of that old sexist consultant and how radically tastes have shifted in just a couple of decades.

A few days earlier, I had been discussing this with Mariam Iosebidze, who began making wine at her eponymous marani in 2015. “In the Soviet era,” she told me, “there was style, not tradition.” The Communists had hardened the rules: no kvevri used in production, but styles assigned to regions—sweet wines to Racha, skin-contact to the east, light wines to the west. Today, Georgia is reaching toward the future while honoring the past—a difficult tightrope to walk.

Zakaraia, who delights in working with rare grapes, told me she was about to be gifted 440 pounds of rkatsiteli, that old Soviet stalwart known for powerful amber wines. “How will you work with it?” I asked. Her answer was immediate. Speaking with reverence, as if stepping into a Georgian church and lighting a candle for her ancestors, she told me everything I needed to know about the future: “I will honor the grapes with full-on skin contact.”