Long before I understood tasting notes, my first wine taught me what drinking really means: a humble Chianti shared over an unpretentious Tuscan lunch.

So, okay, Chianti wasn’t my first wine. I’d had wine before, from a sweet German wine to dry reds at the absolute wrong temperature. However, I don’t have a strong recollection of those wines. I drank them because my family uncorked them and no beer was available. Chianti was my first wine that mattered.

The Tuscan Backdrop Behind My First Wine

When I was nineteen, I was fortunate to travel with my family to Europe for a little over a month back in the summer of ’94. One of our stops was Italy, and after spending a few days in Rome, we took a bus north to Florence.

I don’t know exactly where we stopped for lunch, but it was before we reached the city, and my guess, over 30 years later, is that it must’ve been somewhere in Chianti. I remember a rustic roadside restaurant with rickety wooden furniture and humble, delicious pasta dishes. And for the first time during our trip, I remember the wine.

Back then, none of us knew much about wine. My parents were aware that Chianti was a wine region, but that was about it. We were offered the house wine, and we gladly accepted. I don’t know that they had a wine list, but we certainly didn’t want to deal with one at the time, not that we would’ve been able to make heads or tails from it.

The house wine at this restaurant came in a label-less ceramic jug and was poured into a regular tumbler. I don’t think they even had wine-specific glasses, but nobody cared—not us, and I doubt the rest of the patrons did that day. Why would we? We still thought the wine was lovely.

Was it the Tuscan backdrop? Why did this wine matter more to me than the ones I had tried before? Well, let’s try to find out.

My First Wine, But This Time the Actual First

Not a lot of wine was available in Ecuador—where I grew up—when I was old enough to drink it. And I don’t mean legally. The drinking age was 18 but it was rarely enforced. My friends and I were already meeting for beers when I was sixteen.

But that was beer. Wine was more expensive and we all had the perception that it was reserved for special occasions, so that’s when my parents picked one up from the supermarket. It was always red, probably Merlot or Cabernet, and it came in short, rounded bottles imported from Chile. I remember dad with uncorking a bottle with a butterfly corkscrew for Christmas dinner or someone’s birthday.

Unfortunately, we didn’t know how to store wine. We kept it in the kitchen, just sitting on a counter, probably by the stove. The bottle was probably better than what I remember—oaky, alcoholic, tannic—but the temperature likely killed it. If this was my first wine, it left a poor impression.

The Other Candidate for My First Wine

During summer vacations, while I was in school, every year we visited family in Bolivia. One of those stops was at my uncle’s, for lunch. He enjoyed Liebfraumilch, and once I was old enough, a glass was generously poured for me.

I remember the blue bottle with Mary and baby Jesus on the label, but I have fewer memories of what the wine tasted like, other than it was light and on the sweet side. Yet another wine that didn’t leave an impression.

Either one—the bold red or the sweet wine—could have been my first wine. I honestly don’t remember which one came before the other. But, as you can see, neither of them turned me into the wine lover that I am today. Curiously, it also wasn’t a proper bottle—not even a Chianti Classico, one of my favorite wines nowadays. No, my first wine that mattered was that humble house Chianti we had at a roadside restaurant in Tuscany.

So, Was It the Tuscan Backdrop?

Possibly. But I’m sure it was more than that. Yes, having pasta and wine under the Tuscan sun is truly a moment worth living. We had passed several vineyards on our way there and even saw a couple of quaint hillside towns from the windows of the bus. We were all in a happy mood when we sat down to eat. I’m sure all of that helped.

And I don’t know if it hit me back then, but I understand today that I was sharing a cultural moment, eating and drinking, with the locals. Because wine is, and has been for centuries, part of the culture and everyday life of the working classes.

It was the Tuscan backdrop, sure, but it was also the eye-opening experience I had been blind to. My first wine—the first that was memorable—was that Chianti poured carelessly in a Duralex Picardie tumbler. Not because it was good, though it was, but because it gave me a glimpse into what wine is supposed to be.

What Do I Remember from My First Wine?

Don’t ask me if the wine was balanced or if it was tannic. Back then, I wouldn’t have known either way. I just remember liking it, not whether it smelled of red fruits and violets. It probably paired well with the food we were served and the vibe around us.

We had probably been in Italy a little less than a week already. Rome was hot, and instead of going from landmark to landmark, we found ourselves walking from the shade of trees to a water fountain and to a church, escaping the scorching sun above us. I’m sure jumping into an air-conditioned tour bus heading north was a relief.

We stopped for lunch and to stretch our legs; we had no further expectations. The restaurant didn’t look inviting, and we really hadn’t enjoyed many good meals when we were with this tour. Not bad, mind you, just not good; continental lunches with choices of well-cooked chicken or fish instead of the traditional pasta dishes we were expecting—and which we had when we were on our own.

The surprise wasn’t the food. As soon as we saw pasta was available, we knew it would be better than the previous spots. The surprise was that the restaurant didn’t look like a tourist trap. There wasn’t a single table set for the entire group, and we got to sit at a table as a family, surrounded by others from our group, sure, but also plenty of locals.

When the server came offering wine in Italian, we happily accepted.

What Exactly Was That Wine?

I really don’t know. I’ve been saying Chianti because I’m fairly certain we were in that region. It wasn’t Chianti Classico, either. The restaurant probably bought wicker demijohns of the wine and transferred it to jugs for easier pouring.

However, it’s possible that we were not in Chianti either, and the wine was a Colli della Toscana or a Colli Fiorentini. I like to imagine it was a Chianti because of how much I like the Classico wines from that region today. It also makes a better title.

The Last Drop

My first wine in Tuscany taught me to understand that wine is an everyday drink to many, and that, as such, it doesn’t have to be complicated. Nowadays the industry is struggling because younger generations don’t seem to be interested in wine. And why would they, when price and elitism make it inaccessible?

During that Tuscan lunch I learnt that you don’t need a specific glass to enjoy your wine. That the label isn’t important. That wine is not really something to talk about, but something to drink with friends and family—or even strangers—and food.

If we want to attract new people to wine drinking, a snobby attitude about what glass to use or where to cut the foil isn’t the solution. But sit them at a table with good food, and offer them any wine with a smile, and you will find them more interested.

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Cover image: I had my first wine in Tuscany. Photo by Carolina Noir.