I am not a wine professional, but I deeply care about wine because I grew up with it. I care especially about those old indigenous varieties, about the diversity of the terroirs and passionate growers who cultivate them. I want this to be preserved also for future generations.
I remember sitting at my grandparents’ table doing homework while my grandfather talked with an enologist on the other side of the table. This was the late seventies in Maribor, Slovenia. The enologist wanted to convince my grandfather to filter his wines. My grandfather said no – he didn’t want asbestos in his wines. Filters in those years contained asbestos. He wanted to make wines like elixirs. The varieties he grew were native to the region, unfiltered, and with minimal intervention. They were what we now call natural wine.
My grandfather wasn’t a professional winemaker. He was the director of a Forestry Enterprise, internationally multi-awarded for his work in preserving forests. He was also very active in politics (I still have photos of him with Tito), sports, and hunting. When he reached his fifties, he bought a vineyard. He was obsessed with building the perfect cellar – deep, carved into stone with a natural source of water running through it. I was a little child, maybe three or four, when he was building it, but I still remember it. He had to build a house above the cellar just to satisfy zoning rules, even though no one of us ever lived there. He did it simply because he needed the house to justify the cellar. That’s how passionate and determined he was. He put all his knowledge about nature into making wines. He wasn’t a wine drinker himself, he just enjoyed making great wines as another challenge, to share with family and friends. Like everywhere else, he exceeded here too.
Because of him, I grew up with wine. When I could, I helped him in the vineyard, took part in all the harvests, and sometimes assisted in the cellar. How much I miss the smell of those vineyards.
What he made is what we now call natural wine. But in many old wine regions, this wasn’t ahead of his time – it was a traditional way. The term ‘natural wine’ is a modern invention for what many wine-growing countries have always done. Many winemakers from these regions dislike the term ‘natural’ because it implies novelty. They prefer saying ‘traditional’ – in contrast to the conventional wines that involve much more intervention in the vineyard and in the cellar.
I also grew up tasting wine from a very young age. In traditionally wine-growing countries, wine education starts young. Not through drinking, but through tasting – through comparison. Because my grandfather made wine, we often had four bottles of the same wine from different vintages on the table, or the same vintage of four different varieties. This way, you learn to taste the difference. You learn to be curious, to be passionate about what makes each wine distinct.
I helped with the harvest on his steep vineyard. It was a celebration and labour at once. Family, friends, and community all gathered to do work. The grapes were mixed varieties, so you’d go up the slope harvesting one, come down, and go back up for another. While picking, we cleared the grapes right there on the slope. Noble rot, the good kind, we kept. Bad mould, we cut away. You learned this because it was important to know the difference. This knowledge lived in your hands and eyes, passed down through experience.
People who didn’t grow up in this culture are missing something fundamental. They can be trained, but they’re starting from zero.
The Cycle Repeats
I’m from Slovenia. Born in Maribor, I then lived in Ljubljana from age eighteen to forty-six. I studied architecture, worked for my first seventeen years as an art director in visual communication in advertising agencies, but from 2007 onwards, I organised food and wine events across Slovenia and Italy.
I am not a wine professional and didn’t do any formal wine education. I learnt from my grandfather, then from the wine growers I worked with when organising those food and wine events and later by visiting winemakers in different countries – Italy, Austria, Croatia, France, Spain, Georgia and beyond – with chefs I collaborated with or by attending press trips where I was invited. While living in Slovenia, I once even judged wines at Vinitaly. I was always learning on my own because I wanted to know about wines.
Then, in 2013, I moved to London.
The “Booze” Problem
I’ve never gotten used to hearing the British talk about “booze”. In traditionally wine-growing countries, there’s no equivalent word. This is a Northern European thing. Booze means “let’s get drunk” (the term traces back to the 13th-century Middle Dutch word būsen, meaning “to drink to excess”), and this sounds to somebody coming from a wine-growing culture especially wrong when connected to wines or spirits created with passion by independent growers or distillers. You see it in small ways. In some places in the UK, glasses are still filled to the top. You never see that in traditional winemaking countries in Europe. We don’t drink to get drunk. We drink with respect. To explore new terroirs and vintages, to socialise, to discover something new and pleasant in a great company. We have at least a snack with it, and we have water in a separate glass.
This is cultural. Anthropologically, traditionally wine-growing countries have what’s called “wet” drinking cultures. Wine is integrated into daily life – alongside bread and cheese. Children learn from childhood that wine requires attention. You taste it, you compare, you engage with it as an object worth understanding, not as a means to an effect.
Britain and the Nordic countries have what anthropologists call “dry” drinking cultures. This framework, developed by alcohol researchers including Jellinek and refined by Room and Mäkelä, describes societies where drinking is compartmentalised. It happens at specific times, specific places, with a specific intention: getting drunk. The vocabulary reflects the behaviour. You only need a word like “booze” if drinking is a distinct activity, separable from eating and living. If wine is just what’s on the table at lunch, you call it wine.
The Italian language has no real equivalent of “booze”, Spanish doesn’t either, and French has picole, but it carries a working-class register. English has around three thousand words for being drunk. German has saufen, to drink like an animal, distinct from trinken, to drink.
This cultural divide matters for what happens next in restaurants. When young front-of-house staff come from booze culture – where wine is something ordered from a list, not engaged with – they can’t hand-sell indigenous varieties. Many of them don’t have the language, the curiosity, the sense that wine requires attention. Without that cultural understanding, indigenous wines disappear from lists. Not because guests don’t want them. But because nobody on the floor knows how to explain why they matter.
The Problem
This month, a well-respected chef and restaurateur from London posted a video on Instagram explaining why he’d replaced beautiful, rare indigenous wines on his lists with safer choices like Chardonnay. The economics were brutal, he said. Post-Brexit, prices had tripled, and guests wouldn’t risk sixty pounds on something unfamiliar when they were already squeezed. So he’d shifted toward what people knew. It made sense for him. It was pragmatic.
Then I wanted to know more.
“We wrote a nice wine list of interesting things,” he told me. “But no one on the floor had the confidence to communicate them correctly. Because of Brexit, there’s much less knowledge among the part-time student servers we can hire. We’re training servers from scratch, so it’s easier to lead with more familiar styles.”
This is the real thing, not the guest psychology, not economics alone – it is about staffing. Specifically about the loss of front-of-house staff with wine knowledge and passion – people raised in wine cultures where tasting, comparison, and curiosity are taught from childhood.
He wanted an interesting wine list, but he couldn’t operationally execute it. Post-Brexit, he couldn’t hire experienced European staff with wine knowledge and confidence. He couldn’t afford to train students from scratch on complex wines. So Chardonnay it was.
If this restaurateur, running some of London’s most respected restaurants, can’t sustain indigenous varieties, which he personally appreciates, because he lacks expertise within his team on the floor, what happens to the small producers who depend on restaurants to keep them alive?
The Sommeliers Who Know
Honey Spencer, one of London’s most prominent sommeliers, didn’t accept this framing.
“This is without a doubt one of the most depressing things I’ve seen concerning hospitality,” she said when she saw his post. “Not many restaurants have a full-time sommelier anymore because they can’t afford one, and these specialist bottles need what we call hand selling. That is to say, somebody persuading the guest to choose it from a wine list rather than picking a Chardonnay.”
She corrected the chef’s numbers. The cost of wine hasn’t increased by five times, but 1.4 times (which was also confirmed in a recent article in The Times). But even that changes the math dramatically. A bottle that restaurants used to list for sixty pounds now costs eighty-four. That pushes it into another bracket of affordability.
Most people’s earnings have not increased by 1.4 times over the last five years, Honey pointed out. They are undoubtedly experiencing some level of a cost-of-living crisis. Which means very few people are willing to pay eighty-four pounds for a bottle. And the wealthy who could afford it mostly want classics. This way, indigenous varieties and less mainstream terroirs disappear from lists.
“Monoculture and the absolution of artisanal craft and variation should not be praised,” Honey said. “America outsourced their food security and now plants four crops. It’s a downright dangerous model, and one that should be rallied against, not lauded as progress.”
Peter Honegger, who imports wines under the Newcomer Wines label and has spent years building the market for Austrian and Central European varieties in the UK, examined the underlying issue.
“The root problem is not that these wines are not worthy or able to be sold,” Peter told me. “The biggest topic is that there is a lack of knowledge and confidence among people who are serving these wines. If there were knowledge and confidence among staff, people would order these wines. But we have seen a huge decrease in young Europeans being able to work on the floor, and people being able to confidently sell wine. And this is the real reason why restaurants have changed.”
He pinpointed the structural problem clearly. Post-Brexit, visa sponsorship is required for any European wanting to work in UK hospitality. In a cost-of-living crisis, restaurants can’t afford it.
When I talked with Peter about demand, I observed that maybe twenty per cent of people are wine-knowledgeable and will seek indigenous varieties. The problem is the other eighty per cent. Unless a restaurant has a good sommelier, they’ll go for a safe choice like Chardonnay. If you’re willing to spend fifty, sixty, or seventy pounds on a bottle of wine, you don’t want it to be something you’re unhappy with.
What actually sells isn’t the variety or region, but the wine grower, believes Peter. It’s the substance, the engagement. Peter works with winemakers in Slovenia, Austria, Italy, Hungary and elsewhere who are thriving. Not because they’re growing the indigenous varieties, but because someone is actively introducing them, building relationships, creating context.
“Producers that have been investing their time and effort into market awareness, making events or tastings with importers over a consistent period of time, are still able to maintain market share,” he said. “The most important reason why people buy a certain region, a certain variety, is the winemaker, the producer, the winery.”
What’s Possible When Restaurants Invest
The story isn’t entirely one of loss.
William Wilson, who runs 10 Greek Street and handles wine buying himself, contradicts what we heard earlier about restaurants shifting away from indigenous wines. “Our guests are actually very open to trying new things,” he told me. “We deliberately avoid the usual Pinot Grigio or Sauvignon Blanc profiles and instead work with wines from Valencia, Navarra, South Africa, Greece, and Southern France.”
The difference? He trains his staff. He provides complimentary tastings built into margins. He offers most wines by the glass, which encourages discovery. He has a large portion of his front-of-house team from Europe. “Frankly, we would struggle without the depth of experience they bring,” he said.
“When we do list more familiar varieties, they tend to come with a twist. Sauvignon Blanc from Burgundy. Amphora-aged Sauvignon from South Africa,” he explained. “I do think guest psychology plays a part, but it’s heavily influenced by how well the team is trained. If staff are given the chance to taste, compare, and really understand the wines, they’re far better equipped to guide guests toward something new with confidence.”
Emer Landgraf, head sommelier at the two-Michelin-starred Clove Club, sees the same possibility. She champions indigenous varieties actively. “I think as sommeliers we’ve got a responsibility to keep championing those wines,” she said. “Guest-wise, it really depends. Some people are naturally curious; others need a bit more reassurance. But that’s part of the job. If you can give the right context and build a bit of trust, most people are up for trying something new.”
At Clove Club, the conditions are different. It’s a special occasion. Guests arrive expecting to be led. The meal lasts three hours. There’s time to build a relationship and trust. “People will take a punt at, say, two hundred fifty pounds if the setting feels right. It’s just as much about trust,” Emer said.
Maria Boumpa at the two-Michelin-starred Da Terra is taking it further. She’s doing a collaboration with Coravin, pouring indigenous grapes by the glass. “People are adventurous with the right guidance from the wine team and the right pricing,” she said. “In our list, there is a good balance of classics and more adventurous wines.”
She confirms the staffing crisis. “Small restaurants like ours cannot afford to support visas, so we look for staff in the domestic market. That might change in the future.”
She also notes something crucial about the setting. “Da Terra is a two-star tasting-only menu restaurant in East London, so trying something different is probably easier. Location is an important factor too.”
The pattern is clear. Where restaurants invest in front-of-house staff with knowledge and build relationships, where they train their team, where they offer wines by the glass, and where the setting creates openness, indigenous varieties thrive.
Where that infrastructure collapses, they disappear.
What Indigenous Varieties Actually Are
These aren’t romantic notions. Indigenous varieties are centuries of climate adaptation. They thrive in specific soils and conditions because they evolved there. They require fewer chemicals than international monocultures. They hold genetic diversity that becomes more valuable as the climate changes. They carry cultural identity and regional story.
Indigenous varieties are also tied to traditional winemaking methods. The low-intervention, patient approaches used to make them aren’t modern innovations; they’re how wine was made for centuries. Amber wines, natural wines: in wine regions, these are traditional ways of working, not trendy categories. Many winemakers prefer to call their wines simply ‘traditional’ rather than ‘natural,’ because the methods have never changed. It’s the industrial approach that’s the novelty.
When Slovenian and other winemakers recovered these varieties in the nineties, they weren’t recovering a commodity; they were recovering knowledge, terroir understanding, agricultural heritage and traditional methods that took generations to develop.
Christian Tschida, the Austrian superstar winemaker, sees something different happening. “Distinctive wines are appreciated more than ever,” he told me. “Indigenous varieties expressing the great terroir they grow on become more important than ever. And people around the globe are more curious than ever to discover something new, like Burgenland Blaufränkisch or Furmint.”
But what matters most is substance. His Chardonnay AEIOU isn’t a butterscotch-style Chardonnay; it’s driven by its unique schist and iron terroir, bringing a great sense of distinction and herbaceous flavours. His “All the Love of The Universe” Pinot Blanc is chalk-driven, boasting sharp and laser-like, precise lemonic energy. (he sent me photos above to show) “This is what I really think is our biggest chance and aim,” he said. “Old vines are great and show the terroir like a mirror in the wine.”
He’s thriving not because of indigenous varieties, but because every wine he makes carries place. They’re different expressions of the same principle: that a wine should express where it comes from.
The Alternative Model
What happens when restaurants can’t sustain indigenous varieties?
There is another path. One of those who took it is also Božidar Zorjan, a Slovenian biodynamic winemaker who is thriving without depending on big restaurants or market trends.
“I am not surprised at all by some restaurant owners’ actions,” Božidar told me. “These are people who live and work along the line of least resistance.”
He works differently. “Things are going in the right direction in our house. Open-minded people are coming who care about the land and their own happiness. We don’t have to fear for our survival.”
His model is direct. Small restaurateurs, wine shops, and individuals who come to the farm and understand what he does. People who respect the work.
His winemaking reflects a biodynamic philosophy. “I have come to a complete understanding of yeast, the basis for the living organism that processes grapes into wine. From decades of observation, I have found that yeast lives in most cases for up to three years, and in some wines for up to seven years. I have no right to judge anyone, not even yeast. I let it live until the end of its life.”
He works slowly, respecting natural rhythms. “We pick grapes that carry a lot of life in them and put them in an amphora for a year to decompose and not press them, because every force we use takes a part of life.”
Then patience. “After one year, I transfer the pure wine to another amphora and the third year to a wooden barrel. I am also testing the third year in the amphora. Another time, I keep the wine in the amphora for seven years without opening it. This is the understanding of one cosmic year. Wines are the elixir of life.”
This is not for all restaurateurs. It requires a different kind of economy, a different relationship to time, a different belief system about what wine means. But it shows that when restaurants don’t buy indigenous varieties, when restaurants can’t employ sommeliers, another world exists.
Producers can build direct relationships with people who understand. With small restaurateurs who care. With wine shops focused on quality. With individuals who come to the farm to get a deeper insight.
The indigenous wines will survive. The knowledge will survive, too. But it depends on all of us who choose which wines to drink.
What’s at Stake
When somebody replaces indigenous wines with Chardonnay, they make a rational business decision. But the consequence isn’t just their wine list.
When small producers can’t sell their wines, they sometimes abandon vineyards or replant them with varieties that allow making wines that are easier to sell. This happened across European countries decades ago. Generations of indigenous varieties were ripped out and replaced with Bordeaux blends, Chardonnay, and international grapes that have no relationship to the land.
It took a generation to recover them. It took winemakers who believed, importers who dedicated years to building markets, sommeliers who championed them, and restaurateurs who made space for them.
The crisis now isn’t about wine economics or guest psychology. It’s about whether the people who understand wine, who were raised in cultures where wine is something to taste and compare and explore, can work in the UK wine trade and front-of-house.
Post-Brexit visa restrictions have made that nearly impossible. Cost-of-living pressures have made it unaffordable. The result is that the function that kept indigenous varieties alive in restaurants is disappearing.
If this continues, small wine growers could disappear. Vineyards could be abandoned. Centuries of agricultural knowledge and climate adaptation could be lost.
If it happens, it’s not because guests don’t want those wines but because there are not enough of the right people to sell them.
There Is Another Way
Some producers are finding it. Not through restaurants, but through direct relationships. Through importers willing to spend years building markets. Through sommeliers who refuse to accept Chardonnay as inevitable.
Peter Honegger is still working with Austrian and Central European winemakers. Christian Tschida is thriving, Božidar Zorjan has found his way. Maria Boumpa is using Coravin to offer indigenous wines by the glass. William Willson is training his team to care about what they’re serving. Emer Landgraf is championing these wines at one of London’s best restaurants.
Božidar Zorjan, Christian Tschida and their colleagues are building something entirely different. Direct relationships, respect for the work, time, and philosophy. Wines that are elixirs, not commodities.
This isn’t the solution for every restaurant. But it shows that when you stop waiting for the system to work but invest in people who actually understand wine, when you build relationships instead of just selling products, indigenous varieties don’t disappear. They thrive.
The question now is whether enough people in the UK wine and hospitality industry are willing to do that work. Whether enough restaurants will invest in their front-of-house staff and their knowledge. Whether enough importers will spend years building markets for wines that require expertise and context to sell.
If they do, the varieties, the knowledge, and the heritage will survive. If they don’t, we will lose something irreplaceable. Not because it’s not good. But because we stopped having anyone in the room who knew how to explain why it matters.
Do you want to join the conversation? Contact me!