As world leaders gather in the capital Baku for COP29, Paul White looks back on the history and reports on the modern-day realities of Azerbaijani wine, and picks out some of his favorite producers from a recent visit to the ex-Soviet country in the South Caucasus.
Azerbaijan seems as far out on the outskirts of wine culture as anywhere could possibly be. And yet it borders Georgia’s Khakheti and Kartli regions and shares a long, southern border with Armenia, where, 6,000–8,000 years ago, clay pots were used to ferment Caucasus Mountain wild grapes. Surely some of the ancient culture that gave birth to wine must have spilled over into Azerbaijan?
Instead, while Georgia and Armenia continue their ancient clay pot winemaking traditions, have thriving modern wine industries, and brim with the world’s greatest diversity of grape varieties, few of us have ever seen a bottle of Azeri wine, let alone tasted one.
Azerbaijani wine: A secular industry in a Muslim country
So what’s up?
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The most obvious answer, given Azerbaijan is 96% Muslim, is how any wine would exist there at all. And yet quite unexpectedly, Azerbaijanis are remarkably tolerant of alcohol. Indeed, it’s common to see men and women of all ages enjoying a glass of beer or rosé on a sunny day in Baku’s cosmopolitan streetside cafés. And wine, beer, and spirits are widely available in supermarkets and restaurants.
Azerbaijan’s secular approach to wine owes much to Russian and then Soviet influence dating back two centuries, with deeper roots in the distant past.
Archeological evidence suggests Azerbaijani wine dates back at least 4,000 years, probably much further. It is mentioned by Herodotus in the 7th century BC and Strabo in the 1st Century BC. For millennia Azerbaijan wine lived happily under pagan, Zoroastrian, Persian, and Christian influences, then around 1,400 years ago, Islam interrupted development. Happily, between a general tolerance for Christian and Jewish communities inside its borders and the ease of hiding wine in buried clay pots, Azerbaijan wine appears to have survived Muslim rule.
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According to Aziz Gasimov (@experienceAzerbaijan), conquest by Czarist Russia in the 19th century and reconquest by the Soviets in the 20th established wine production on industrial scales, predominantly focused on the Russian market. Production, geared towards quantity, not quality, peaked at 2 million tons by 1985, until Gorbachov’s dictates against alcohol consumption stopped large scale winemaking in its tracks. Thereafter, 130,000ha (320,000 acres) of vineyards were pulled up for firewood.
During the 2000s the industry rebooted and began the process of reinventing itself. Since then winery development has been very much top-down and quazi-oligarchal in nature, mixing wealthy investors with governmental support aimed at rural development. This revolves around a handful of large industrial wineries processing hand-picked 300–500ha (740–1,235 acres) vineyards along the lines of large wineries in the New World.
Tellingly, small, family-oriented, vigneron-focused wineries—the bedrock of most wine cultures—are almost non-existent.
Development has been smartly conceived and executed. Vineyard locations and grapes have been carefully chosen to suit soils and climate, mostly sited between 300–1,000m (984–3,280ft) to maintain natural acidity and avoid over-ripeness. Although the usual Bordeaux and Burgundy-derived grapes predominate, there are a few unexpected outliers in the mix (Verdelho, Riesling, and a wide range of Rhône and Italian grapes).
National pride has played an active role in successfully reversing the longstanding negative image of Soviet-era Azerbaijani wine, with a focus on consistency, quality, and good value to supply both a burgeoning domestic audience and an expansive Russian market.
The current phase recognizes that any distinctive Azerbaijan identity must come from increased focus on local and pan-Caucasus varieties. Traditionally divided between northern and southern grapes, the former include Georgia’s Saperavi, Mtsvane, and Rkatsiteli alongside Azerbaijan’s Madrasa and Bayan Shira, all are successfully producing terroir-revealing, 100% varietals and/or distinctive blends with French varieties.
Grapes grown in the south include the white Bayan Shira/Bayan Shirey, traditionally used in local sparkling wine. Associated with Bayan village southwest of Ganja, it is synonymous with Armenia’s Banants grape, grown mainly in its northeastern Tavush region.
The most promising southern red is Khndoghni (Armenia’s Sireni), cultivated originally within the Lesser Caucasus Mountains ranging between Armenia’s Syunik and the Karabakh Valley. A couple I tasted were quite compelling: delicately aromatic, red fruited, linear and finely tannin-ed. Clearly a grape with a great future.
Madrasa/ Mədrəsə is exclusively Azerbaijani, primarily grown around its namesake northern village near Shamakhi on the foothills of the Greater Caucasus Mountains, and the western Ganjabasar region.
Late-ripening, thick-skinned, and darkly colored, Madrasa tends toward brambly black fruits and raspberries, with firm, dusty mid-palate tannins.
Production was around 50,000ha (125,000 acres) from the late 19th Century, until devastated by the Gorbachav vine-pull. Having survived this, the single, most important Madrasa “mother vine” source faces a tragic situation. Originally planted in 1954 by the now defunct Ivanovka village collective farm, the village intends to uproot this important 300ha (740 acres), 70-year-old vineyard to grow wheat. No one seems to be batting an eye at the countless unidentified clones and massive biodiversity wiped away by this shortsighted self-interest.
Azerbaijani wine: The producers
Three of Azerbaijan’s most important large producers are located directly west of Baku, an hour or so’s drive steadily upward from 20m (65ft) below sea level, through scrubby desert-like terrain leading into the Shamakhi and Ismayilli districts straddling the stunningly beautiful southern foothills of the Greater Caucasus.
Savalan established its 360ha (890 acres) vineyard at 400m (1,310ft) in 2007 and a winery in 2010. Although focused mainly on French varieties, Veneto-born winemaker Daniele d’Andrea delivers these with an Italian stylistic flair aiming for juicy, purely-fruited wine with good natural acidity. Generally outperforming their sharp prices, I found Savalan’s Chardonnay, Moscato, Viognier, and Traminer much more varietal, consistent and quaffable than the reds.
Best of the lot were a lip-smackingly tart, bone-dry Sauvignon Blanc 2023, Australian-like dry Riesling 2020, Languedoc-ish Viognier 2022, and an intriguing outlier Verdelho 2023: minerally, full bodied, succulently juicy. All in the 86-to-87-point range.
Up a notch quality-wise, Meysari established vineyards at 750m (2,460ft) in 2014. Initially focused on Rhône/Languedoc grapes (Grenache Blanc, Roussanne, Marsanne, Clairette, Marselan, Cinsault, Carrignan, Grenache, and Mouvèdre), their hand-harvested, organic, non-irrigated vineyard has subsequently broadened into pan-Caucasus grapes (whites Bayan Shira, Rkatsiteli, and Mtzvane, and reds Saperavi, Madrasa, and Shirvanshahi).
With the vineyard delivering naturally balanced acidity and fruit purity, I found the wines really well made, rivaling Languedoc/southern French blends, the most interesting with an added Caucasian twist. The reds were especially pure, finely tapered and tannin-ed, with terrific acidity and degrees of elegance. Blends of Caucasian and French grapes were carefully crafted to create entirely new styles.
For example, Sadaf 2022 (13% abv) mixes Grenache Blanc, Roussanne, Marsanne, and Clairette with local Bayan Shira and Mtzvane creating Rhônish vinosity (mineral density/savory salinity) slashed through with a long, lasting spicy, scimitar-esque edge. 89
Their red Innabi 2019 combines seven varieties based around a core of Marselan and locals Saperavi, Madrasa, and Shirvanshahi. Densely concentrated blackfruits up front, then a long tail full of nicely finessed, sappy acidity (91 points). Even better was Makhmari 2021 13.5%; a tightly knit Marselan, Cinsault, Carignan, Grenache Noir, and Mourvèdre blend to rival any similar blends from Languedoc (92 points).
Chabiant emerged from the ruins of a previously bankrupt winery, Château Monolit, in 2016. Thoughtful Florence-born winemaker Marco Catelani is the driving force behind its revival. The winery and accompanying hotel-restaurant complex have clearly seen better days and are strategically scheduled for upgrading in future, freeing Catelani to focus primarily on vineyard improvements.
Backgrounded by breathtaking views of the Greater Caucasus Mountains, Chabiant’s 270ha (670 acres) Vineyard was originally planted in 2007 on slopes ranging between 600–1,000m (1,970–3,280ft). Recent upgrades include higher density plantings, smarter trellising, and reduced yields (1.5kg [3.3 pounds] per vine). Winemaking currently revolves around Rkatsiteli, Banyan Shira, Saperavi, and Madrasa, with intentions to increase Azerbaijani varieties and shift away from a red predominance toward a 50/50 split in future.
Ironically, considering Catellani’s Italian heritage, his were the most Azerbaijani wines of all I sampled. Stylistically focused on being bone-dry, with fruit purity, lower alcohol, and clean structures, all had an overriding Italianate gastronomic friendliness and were full of personality and distinctive varietal expression.
Chabiant’s strongest suit are its local grape wines. Chabiant Classic Line Bayan Shira 2023 (12% abv) demonstrates the grape’s potential. Tasting two different bottles over 24 hours, it offered an ever changing array of complex characters, from neutral minerality through melon, stone fruit characters with spicy-herbal high tones of spearmint, thyme, rosemary. Full-bodied textures were counterbalanced with sharp citrus-lime acidity. 89
Chabiant Classic Madrasa 2021 (13% abv) is similarly complex, packed full of fresh and dried cherry characters of all types and colours. Full bodied and rounded with fleshy textures, firmed up with dusty back-palate tannins (91 points).
Chabiant is worth visiting just for its restaurant’s outstanding, authentically Azeri cuisine. Produced in adjacent village plots and cooked by locals—I can vouch for some of the tastiest tomatoes, freshly baked bread, and fried chicken I’ve eaten in my life.
However, the finest, most interesting and accomplished Azerbaijani wines I tasted during this trip were from a small, upstart “vigneron” producer, FA Valley. Practicing surgeon, Dr Farkhad Agayev, makes the wines and oversees a densely planted, 5ha (12 acres), clay and limestone, organic vineyard established in 2018.
Following a deep love for Italian wines and a crystal-clear idea of what makes them great, Dr Agayev planted six Italian varieties in the previously vine-free Khachmaz region, 60km (37 miles) south of the Russian border and close by the Caspian Sea. These are hand-picked, and fermented with native yeast in his highly efficient, boutique winery jam-packed with stylish Italian concrete tanks, large format oak barrels, 4,000l foudre, and Franco-Italian-designed amphora.
All his 100% bottlings of Aglianico, Colorino, Nero d’Avola, Sangiovese, Sagrantino, and Pugnatello are smartly grown, precisely made, and intensely varietal. They would stand up well in a lineup of quality Italian counterparts.
Most outstanding were: a florally, brambly-black cherried FA Valley Nero d’Avola 2022 (12.5% abv), which is slick, smooth, and concentrated, slashed through with a terrific streak of acidity. (93 points); an ultra-pure concrete produced, FA Valley Aglianico 2022 (13% abv), overdelivering pricewise on all fronts (91 points); and a very serious FA Valley Ragazzaccia (bad girl) Aglianico 2020 (13.5% abv) that’s big and bold, highly aromatic, expansive, nicely finessed, and finely tannin-ed. Easily the greatest wine I tasted in Azerbaijan. (96 points).
Azerbaijani wine: Intriguing in its own right
Not knowing quite what to expect of Azerbaijan wine, what I discovered was intriguing in its own right.
No one, for example, would expect such a strong Italian winemaking influence, nor an Azerbaijani, just shy of the Russian border, making Italianate wine from Italian grapes.
Azerbaijan’s Scientific Research Institute of Viticulture and Oenology is currently identifying and undertaking DNA studies of 350-400 local grapes intent on bulking up vines for vineyard production. Winemakers will soon have a lot of new local grapes to play around with.
The answer why we haven’t heard much about Azerbaijan wine is that it really only emerged 20 years ago after a long hibernation. In many ways it’s recreated itself as one of the world’s newest, New World-style wine producers. Having cracked those basics, Azerbaijan wine is discovering what will make it uniquely Azeribajani.
Although I didn’t find anything akin to its neighbor’s karas/qvevri terracotta winemaking traditions intact, there are a few glimmers of hope. Meysari had 16 qvevris sitting upside down alongside their stainless steel tanks ready to bury, and then produce wine next year. I also heard tantalizing rumors that some villagers near the borderlands continue to carry on traditional clay pot winemaking.
Azerbaijan’s future may yet find new paths through its past.
A final aside. Azerbaijan is ripe for wine tourism. Baku itself is a very cosmopolitan city and worth a few days wandering around for its own sake. A mixture of Barcelona with Istanbul, its old, walled, medieval center is tidily restored, easily walked, and remarkably untouristy, framed by some of the wildest modern architecture on the planet.
The food and wine scene is vibrant and increasingly driven by youth culture. Its leading wine bar, Kefli, is totally focused on Azerbaijani wine and constantly digs new producers out of their garages.
Baku also makes for a great hub to explore Azerbaijani wineries since most are located within an hour or two’s drive away. All have excellent restaurants focused on elevated traditional dishes and local produce. Many offer stunningly beautiful mountainous vistas and long sunsets.
Having only just scratched the surface of Azerbaijan and Azerbaijani wine, I’m very keen to go back.
