There is a color that does not quite belong to white wine, nor to red. It sits between them like late afternoon light on an old windowpane - amber, warm, unhurried. The French call it orange wine, though the name is borrowed from sensation rather than from the fruit itself.
Altugnac Orange is The New Wine comes from the south of France, from a land called Armagnac - a region the world knows mostly for its brandy, for its slow oak barrels, for its patience. But patience, it turns out, is useful in many forms of making.
The wine is produced by macerating grape skins during fermentation, the way red wines have always been made. The skins give what the skins have always given: color, tannin, texture, time. The result is a wine that carries the memory of its own grapes more honestly than most.
In the glass it is the color of September honey. On the nose it opens with dried apricot, orange peel, a whisper of ginger. There is something almost autumnal about it - not sad, but contemplative. The kind of mood that arrives when the light begins to slant differently and you find yourself sitting still for longer than you planned.
I think of WisΕawa Szymborska when I hold a glass like this. Not because she wrote about wine - she did not, particularly - but because she had a way of finding the infinite in the overlooked. A grain of sand. A moment of meeting. A glass of something amber in a quiet room.
She wrote once that we know ourselves so poorly. The wine in this glass knows itself rather well. It knows it is tannic but not harsh. It knows it finishes long and warm, like a conversation that ends without anyone wanting it to end.
In Poland, in the Bieszczady mountains in the far southeast, there are places where the silence is old enough to have its own texture. You can walk for an hour on a forest path and not hear a single human sound. Just wind through beech trees. Just your own footsteps on damp ground. In that kind of silence, a glass of amber wine on a wooden table becomes unexpectedly significant.
This is not a metaphor for loneliness. It is a metaphor for presence.
The Bieszczady have always attracted people who needed to slow down without quite knowing how to ask for it. Writers, painters, people between one version of themselves and another. The mountains there are low and rounded, not dramatic - they do not demand anything of you. They only suggest that you stay a little longer.
Altugnac's wine has a similar quality. It does not insist. It suggests. Serve it at twelve to fourteen degrees Celsius, in a white wine glass, and let it breathe for a few minutes before you decide what you think of it. It pairs with aged cheese, with salmon tartare, with Asian cuisine that balances salt and sweetness. But it also pairs with silence and no particular agenda.
The ancient method of skin-contact winemaking was practiced in the Caucasus thousands of years before amphorae became fashionable again in Brooklyn wine bars. Georgia, Armenia, Slovenia - places where wine was not a lifestyle product but a language. A way of saying: the harvest happened, we are still here, come and drink with us.
France arrived at this conversation somewhat later. But Armagnac, being Armagnac - unhurried, slightly eccentric, confident enough not to follow Bordeaux - arrived in its own time and on its own terms.
There is something right about that.
The tannins in this wine are present but gentle. They give the wine a slight grip, a spine, without hardness. The finish is warm. The dried apricot note lingers. The ginger appears at the very end, like a thought you almost forgot to have.
Szymborska would have noticed the ginger. She would have written a poem about it, probably. A short one. Precise. Ending on a question that answers itself sideways.
We will not attempt to replicate that here. Some things belong only to the people capable of doing them.
What we can say is this: orange wine is not a trend. It is a return. A return to a way of making that remembers the whole grape, not just its juice. A way that asks the winemaker to trust the process rather than correct it at every turn.
Altugnac has trusted the process. The result sits in your glass, amber and patient, asking nothing in particular except that you pay attention.
The Bieszczady will still be there next weekend. The silence will still have its texture. And if you bring a bottle of something this honest to a wooden table in a mountain shelter, the evening will take care of itself.
For those who want to begin - darwin.pl is a good place to start.
darwina.pl
