Story #9 - Wines That Bring People Together
February 1st, 2026 | Alexander Mackh, Co-Founder
For me, that kind of unanimity usually comes from balance—not the polite balance of the middle, but the convincing balance of harmony. The intensity is clearly there, but it never pushes past the point of pleasure. The acidity is clearly there, but it never turns sharp or dominant. When neither side wins, both sides become visible at once. The wine feels elegant and intense, and the brain relaxes because it doesn’t need to choose.
Texture is where that harmony becomes physical. We don’t only taste wine—we feel it. And texture can be shaped in a surprisingly honest way: by skin contact, by whole-bunch inclusion, by how gently or firmly tannins are extracted, and by oak when it’s used as structure rather than perfume. When it’s done in the right amount, tannin stops being “a tannic wine” and becomes an integrated line—fine, supportive, almost architectural. People who usually dislike tannins often enjoy them when they’re woven into the wine instead of sitting on top of it. And people who love structure still feel satisfied because the wine holds its shape. That’s one of wine’s more beautiful contradictions: the same integration can please both camps.
Complexity works similarly. The wines that truly unite people aren’t always simple; they’re clear. They can carry layers—stone, citrus, herbs, tea, spice, cherry, earth—but the layers don’t compete. They read like one story, not like noise. And that clarity is rarely “made” in the cellar alone. It usually starts with places that naturally preserve tension: poor soils that limit vigour, and meaningful day–night temperature shifts that keep freshness alive even as flavour builds.
Chablis
This is one reason I keep returning to Chablis when I want a white wine that almost never splits a room. It’s the northern edge of Burgundy, with a cool, semi-continental profile and a very real risk of spring frost—one of the region’s defining pressures. The wines are made from Chardonnay—by rule—and in the classic idiom they’re often less marked by oak than many other Burgundian whites. 
But the real explanation is deeper than “unoaked” or “high acidity.” Chablis sits on a geological signature that wine people mention so often it risks becoming cliché: Kimmeridgian limestone and clay, rich with fossil material from an ancient seabed.  Whether one calls that “minerality” or simply “a mineral core,” the effect is consistent: intensity that feels grounded, and freshness that feels structural rather than stylistic.
It also helps explain why some drinkers instinctively choose Chablis over a typical Puligny-Montrachet when the goal is shared pleasure. Puligny can be magnificent, but it often leans into breadth and richness. Chablis tends to hold intensity inside a tighter frame—freshness as counterweight, not decoration. It’s not less serious; it’s just more obviously in equilibrium.
Montalcino
On the red side, my February answer is Montalcino—and specifically Sangiovese in its most disciplined form. Brunello di Montalcino is legally 100% Sangiovese, and it’s among Italy’s longest “wait-before-release” wines: it cannot be released until January 1 of the fifth year after harvest (and later for Riserva), after extended mandatory ageing that includes time in wood and in bottle. Those rules matter not because regulations are romantic, but because they push a certain outcome: tannins are given time to become integrated, and intensity is encouraged to become harmony.
When Brunello (or a great Rosso from the same place) is made with restraint, it becomes one of the most convincing examples of “structured without being heavy.” The wine can be deep and savoury—cherry and herbs, earth and tea—yet still lifted. It satisfies the person seeking power, and reassures the person who fears weight. Again: not compromise, but alignment.
And that brings me back to February. I like February because it carries two seasons at once: the days begin to soften, but the nights still remind you it’s winter. That contrast mirrors the kind of wine I reach for when I want common ground—wines that hold warmth and brightness in the same glass.
Final Thought
If there’s a takeaway I’d leave you with, it’s this: people don’t actually agree on styles as often as they agree on proportions. When intensity and freshness are both present—and neither is allowed to dominate—balance stops being an idea and becomes a physical feeling. It feels right. And when a wine feels right, it doesn’t just taste good. It makes agreement easy.