A Father, a Son, and the Wines of an Era

In the evenings the kitchen smelled of fried potatoes and marjoram, and on the table stood a slender glass where the light glittered like the Mosel on a July day. My father lifted it, checked the color, fell silent and nodded. I was allowed to sip. And what did I taste? Either acidity. Or sweetness. “Who can drink this?” I thought, and I still remember how I swore I’d never become a wine drinker.

My father was long past such youthful absolutes. He wasn’t one to collect labels. In wine, he was a site-and-vintage man. “Jungfer, Nussbrunnen, Goldtröpfchen. And not just any year,” he would murmur, like a rosary of pleasure. That’s how I learned names that sounded like chapters in a family chronicle: Hallgartener Jungfer and Hattenheimer Nussbrunnen in the Rheingau—cool, precise, with a fine line of drive. On Mosel and Saar: Ockfener Bockstein, Wiltinger Braune Kupp, Zeltinger Sonnenuhr, Erdener Treppchen, Piesporter Goldtröpfchen—slate smoke, citrus, white peach; with maturity, a whisper of honey and wax. Then the village signatures he loved: the “herbal” note from Trabener Kräuterhaus. And when I said “Wawener Titterpfad,” he gently corrected me: “Wawerner Ritterpfad, a pure south-facing site with Saar sunshine. You’ll remember that.”

On Sundays he’d pour legends that filled half the kiosk and entire tour busses: Zeller Schwarze Katz—a brand, a myth, a conversation starter—and of course Kröver Nacktarsch, the famous collective site whose name did half the joking for you. And yes: in the 1960s and ’70s the world adored a mild, fruity idea of German wine; Liebfraumilch was the door-opener. My father smiled at the fuss but liked the approachable charm alongside meatballs and potato salad—so long as the bottle showed origin and kept its balance.

In 1971, the family talk about wine changed. The new German wine law reorganized the vineyards, grouped sites, codified origin. And as it happened, 1971 also delivered a great vintage. “A collective site (Großlage) isn’t automatically great,” my father said, “but a good single vineyard (Einzellage) in a good year can carry for decades.” That’s when I first grasped that he cared about the „in-between“, not “sour or sweet”: he sought tension, finesse, origin.

From my father’s wine notes (1960–1975) — with an eye to the future

• 1964 Ockfener Bockstein Spätlese (Saar) — “Smoke on wet slate, citrus, white peach; very balanced. Will hold 20+ years, gains composure.”
• 1969 Zeltinger Sonnenuhr Auslese (Mosel) — “Candied zest, marzipan, fine spice; sweetness well led. Will blossom between 1985–1995.”
• 1971 Piesporter Goldtröpfchen Auslese (Mosel) — “Apricot, acacia honey, light wax; great length. Big potential, 15–30 years.”
• 1971 Hallgartener Jungfer Kabinett (Rheingau) — “Cool, saline, very fine; low in alcohol. Ages toward blossom honey and herbal tea.”
• 1975 Erdener Treppchen Spätlese (Mosel) — “Slender, crystal clear, fine acidity. Patience: will turn silky.”

The inherited cellar

Years later I stood before what was left of his cellar—mostly late ’60s, early ’70s. I opened cautiously, skeptical at first. The memory of “acidity or sweetness” still lived in me. But suddenly there was more: slate smoke, beeswax, chamomile, mirabelle; a hint of petrol in mature Riesling that didn’t disturb but fascinate. The 1969s felt like preserved summer evenings—clear yet deep. 1971 showed the long breath my father had foreseen: tension without weight, an arc of apricot, herbal honey and cool minerality. Even 1975, once deemed less glamorous, unfolded with patience into a quiet elegance my younger self could never have recognized.

Tasting through the 1980s and ’90s, I learned to “hear” his notes. “Will turn silky,” he’d written about the Treppchen. And indeed: edges had become lines; the sweetness no longer sweet, but a gentle melt; the acidity no longer sour, but play. I understood how fine his palate was—today you’d simply say: my father knew Mosel and Rhine wines. Did I inherit that? Who knows. What’s certain is that I grew a feel for the exceptional, and I owe that entirely to him.

Late love, clear preferences: origin. balance. patience.

I came late to wine—perhaps because I judged it too early. Once I discovered the “between,” I sought it everywhere. Crowd-pleasing, interchangeable wines built for effect leave me cold. Like my father, I look for tone rather than volume: sites and vintages that tell stories; growers who follow their parcels, not trends. His example lives on—not as dogma, but as a compass.

Sometimes I imagine him raising a glass today. He wouldn’t explain, just nod—perhaps with half a smile. And when I sip, I no longer taste “acidity or sweetness.” I taste time. I taste places. I taste a father who didn’t want to turn his son into a wine drinker, but into someone who listens, feels, tastes—and understands.

And whenever “Zeltinger Sonnenuhr” or “Hallgartener Jungfer” flashes before me, an old notebook opens. Between the terse lines I hear him: “Origin. Balance. Patience.” The rest is my own path—late to start, a bit headstrong, always searching for the particular. Perhaps that is the finest inheritance from my father’s cellar.