Summer like a out of gas prosecco

There are moments in winemaking when you look at a glass and feel that something is… off. It’s like a bottle of prosecco left on the counter – still wine, still sparkling, but the joy has somehow escaped. Except in my case, the problem isn’t prosecco, but rather myself – and that feeling that I’m slowly… well, going flat, just like this poor summer.

I remember last year’s wine fair in Piedmont, in the town of Pollenzo. The scenery looked like a postcard: the baroque walls of a former gastronomic university, long tables groaning under the weight of glasses, the air trembling with Italian sun. The winemakers – elegant, tanned, with that characteristic sparkle in their eyes when they start speaking about their land. Their stories flowed freely: about grape varieties that had grown on the same hillside for generations; about soil that “still remembers the Roman Empire”; about vines that supposedly “breathe with the moon.”

Normally – pure magic. But me? Instead of carefully noting down every word, I was keeping a different kind of tally in my head: which Nebbiolo was this week’s? The eighth? Ninth? Or maybe the fourteenth, since yesterday in Asti there had also been a few “unmissable” tastings.

And it wasn’t that the wine was bad – quite the opposite. Each Nebbiolo had its own character: one with a delicate violet note, another earthier, a third with tannins so strong they could still polish my teeth today. But instead of analyzing the nuances, my head was occupied with a different thought: is there anything more merciless in this world than thirty degrees of heat, a long-sleeved shirt, and a standing tasting at noon?

And that’s when the feeling arrived, one I know all too well. Not fatigue with the wine, but fatigue with myself – that another glass no longer brought joy, only a sense of duty. That instead of savoring the taste, I was ticking samples off a list: Barolo? Done. Barbaresco? Checked. Langhe? Crossed off.

That’s exactly what burnout tastes like – like a Nebbiolo that should move you, but instead stirs only a flat “uh-huh.” When you stop enjoying what once thrilled you, and every next wine – even the best – becomes just another calendar entry.

I watched a winemaker gesticulating passionately, telling me about the microclimate of his slope. And in my head, I was drafting the sentence: “Ladies and gentlemen, Nebbiolo is a fascinating grape, but today I feel more of my sweaty back than any violets.”

And maybe that’s the whole truth about our industry: even the noblest wine cannot stand on its own if the heart runs out of bubbles. You can have a three-figure Barolo before you, from a vintage described in guides as “legendary,” poured into a glass so thin you’re afraid to breathe – and still taste it like ordinary lemon tea.

Because without passion, every Nebbiolo becomes just another calendar entry, and every summer – just another heatwave (or is it, really?). And then everything truly tastes like flat prosecco: still wine, still something special, but the joy has escaped, like the last drop of foam sliding down the glass.

Fortunately – the bubbles return. Sometimes all it takes is a short break, a breath, a meeting with people who ask about Nebbiolo as if discovering a new continent. Sometimes all it takes is to open a bottle not to analyze it, but simply to make a toast. And then suddenly, we remember that it’s not just about aromas, tannins, or terroir.

Because wine – even Nebbiolo – only makes sense when we drink it with a sparkle in our eyes. And prosecco, even when flat, can always be chilled and poured again.