How the "wrong" wine keeps gatecrashing New Year’s Eve

 

New Year’s Eve has a remarkable ability to make sensible people do odd things. We overpromise, overdress, over-order, and somewhere between the countdown and the canapé, buy wine we don’t actually want. Not bad wine, necessarily. Just wine that has misunderstood the brief.

The “wrong” wine on New Year’s Eve is rarely flawed. It isn’t corked, cooked, or criminally sweet. It’s simply inappropriate. It arrives too loudly, costs too much, demands attention, and then looks faintly offended when nobody applauds. It has been chosen not because it suits the room, the food, or the people, but because it looked like the right thing to do. Midnight has that effect. Turns wine into theatre.

December masquerades as a celebration but behaves like a performance review. Expectations spike. Everyone wants to signal generosity, taste, optimism, even success. Wine becomes shorthand. The bottle is asked to do emotional labour it never signed up for: impress the room, validate the host, reassure the buyer that they haven’t misjudged the moment. It’s a heavy burden for fermented grape juice.

And so the "wrong" wine keeps gatecrashing.

Part of the problem is the stubborn myth of the “correct” bottle. Champagne, we’re told. Preferably famous. Preferably expensive. Preferably recognisable from across the room. Tradition, in wine, often functions as peer pressure with better branding. Over time, custom hardens into obligation, and obligation into anxiety. The question quietly shifts from What would we enjoy drinking? to What would look right at midnight?

This pressure lands differently across markets. In long-established wine cultures, the panic is rarely logistical. The shops are stocked, the cellars full. The anxiety is emotional. You’ve tasted, read, watched, absorbed opinions. You know just enough to worry about getting it wrong, and that worry nudges you towards prestige, safety, and labels to be defended rather than enjoyed. The wine here is often chosen with immaculate logic and zero joy.

In younger wine cultures - India, Southeast Asia, the UAE - the dynamics are different, and refreshingly freer. There is less doctrine, fewer unspoken rules. Wine is still something you choose, not something you’re supposed to know. That cultural youth is an advantage. It allows curiosity to outrank reverence. It lets people ask, without embarrassment, “Do we actually like this?” rather than “Is this correct?”

This is also why an inappropriate wine can feel especially conspicuous in these settings. It

stands out not because it’s impressive, but because it’s trying too hard. It doesn’t understand the table, the food, the rhythm of the evening. It was bought to be seen, not shared. It belongs more to the idea of New Year’s Eve than to the Eve itself.

When the right wine turns up, something different happens. Nobody makes a speech. Nobody checks the label twice. Glasses refill without fuss. Conversation flows. The bottle empties naturally, without ceremony. No one remembers where it came from or what it cost, only that the evening felt easy. That is not an accident. That is alignment.

The right wine doesn’t dominate the moment; it keeps pace with it. It understands that New Year’s Eve is not a tasting exam. It doesn’t care about points, hype, or pedigree. It cares about being opened, poured, and finished before the fireworks lose their novelty. It behaves like a good guest: present, generous, and perfectly content not to be the centre of attention.

That, perhaps, is the only useful principle worth carrying into the new year. Choose wine that fits the moment, not the myth. Buy for the table, not the performance. Trust taste over theatre. Nobody has ever raised a glass at midnight and said, “This scored very well.”

Wine gatecrashes when we stop listening to ourselves. When we buy with our eyes instead of our instincts. The solution isn’t rebellion or rule-breaking. It’s permission. To choose comfort over ceremony. Familiarity over flex. Pleasure over proof.

December is noisy. It’s tinsel and speeches, optimism and exhaustion. The wrong wine will keep gatecrashing New Year’s Eve. The trick isn’t stopping it - it’s learning not to let it run the party.

And after the party? Step away, breathe, and let the noise settle. Which is what I plan to do. Wine will still be here in April, waiting to be enjoyed without the pressure of the midnight gong. And I’ll be back with the same clutter‑breaking content to remind you that wine is not a test, it’s a pleasure.

Have a glass, folks! And sláinte!

Wine should be enjoyed. Drink responsibly.
Disclaimer: All links provided in this blog are based on my own research and are not paid or sponsored.

The fine art of panic-buying wine (because you forgot it's December)

 

It happens every year. December pops up like a tax audit, and suddenly you’re expected to be festive, composed, and well-stocked in the wine department. But, you are not. You are standing in a shop that smells faintly of detergent, staring at a shelf of room-temperature reds, wondering if it is socially acceptable to bring a cake instead.

Look, forgetting to buy wine in December isn’t a crime. It’s a symptom. A side effect of overcommitment, under-planning, and the delusion that you’ll “sort it next week.” Next week is now. And your next invitation is in three hours.

Why it happens (you're not alone)

December is a deception. It masquerades as a month but behaves like a festival circuit. Between office parties, reunions, end-of-year deadlines, and the sudden obligation to buy gifts for people you barely claim to know, wine becomes collateral damage.

You assumed someone else would bring it. They didn’t. They brought a Bluetooth speaker and a box of Ferrero Rocher. Congratulations - you’re the designated adult.

You were waiting for a sale. And now you're panic-scrolling through delivery apps that place wine under “gourmet essentials” between truffle oil and quinoa.

Different markets, same panic

Across India and Southeast Asia, wine is still the elegant afterthought. Spirits dominate. Beer overwhelms brunches. Wine is what you bring when you want to look like you tried.

In appearance-forward markets like Dubai and Singapore, wine is a lifestyle accessory - curated, imported, and occasionally used to signal residential zone.

In established markets, the panic is not logistical but existential. You’ve done the tastings, read the reviews, and cannot bear the idea of choosing something that tastes like homework.

What to do when you’ve forgotten
It’s 12 noon. You’ve got a dinner at 8. You’re still in office, and the nearest wine merchant is a

45-minute drive through traffic moving like a philosophical debate. Here’s a cheat sheet:

1. Go screwcap
You don’t have time to hunt for a corkscrew or justify bringing a bottle that requires tools.

2. Pick wines with broad appeal
Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Noir, or a dry rosé. Wines that don’t demand food pairings or commitment. They just show up and behave.

3. Avoid anything labelled “Reserve” - unless you genuinely know the producer
Often marketing. You’re not buying legacy. You’re buying survival.

4. India: choose confident local producers.
The new Indian wines are no longer performing for approval - they’re simply good. Sula’s Brut Tropical, York’s Chenin Blanc, or Fratelli’s Sette if you’re feeling generous. Built for December chaos and relatives who think wine should taste like whisky.

5. Southeast Asia: wine as diplomat.
December dinners involve generations, negotiations, and opinions on durian. A chilled white or light red can turn a tense meal into a tolerable one - especially when dessert enters the chat.

6. Elsewhere: choose wines that care, but don’t try too hard.

Portuguese reds, Austrian whites, South African Chenin. Wines that taste like effort but not exertion.

7. Ditch the Champagne performance.
Skip imported Champagne unless you’re hoping to impress someone who believes Veuve is a personality trait. Choose Cava, Franciacorta, or Tasmanian sparkling - lively, credible, and dramatically less traumatic for your bank balance.

How to avoid panic next year
Buy early. December 1st is not too soon. You’re not hoarding - you’re being realistic.

Stock a mixed case. Six reds, six whites, one sparkling, one wildcard. Fourteen bottles: enough to survive until January.

Keep a gifting stash. Two bottles wrapped and ready - one for the host, one for the person who unexpectedly hands you a present and triggers your moral panic.

Maintain an emergency bottle in the fridge. Foresight.

Before you spiral
Forgetting wine in December isn’t quite the social equivalent of forgetting your duty-free wine in the cab – but it’s close enough for discomfort.

December isn’t subtle: it’s printed on calendars, shouted across invitations, and plastered on office party emails. Yet somehow, there you are with a supermarket cake, hoping sugar will mask your negligence.

December is not stealthy; it is the loudest, most demanding guest of the year. Wine is its unofficial currency. So, if you’ve failed to stock up, don’t blame fate or logistics - call it what it is: optimism dressed as chaos.

The solution is simple: buy early, stash cleverly, keep one bottle cold at all times. Because the best wine isn’t the one with medals. It’s the one that saves you from being remembered as the guest who genuinely believed the cake was enough.

 

Wine should be enjoyed. Drink responsibly.
Disclaimer: All links provided in this blog are based on my own research and are not paid or sponsored.

Your December wine guide: celebrations, gifting & survival

 

December is that time of year when wine stops being a hobby and becomes a coping mechanism disguised as festive cheer. The parties are louder, the relatives are closer, and the expectations are higher than your credit card bill. Whether you’re navigating Christmas dinner in Burgundy, a rooftop soirée in Delhi, or a Dubai year end party where even the cake has a publicist, you’ll need bottles with backbone - wines that survive bad playlists, overcooked roasts, enthusiastic toasts, and the kind of holiday conversations that make you reconsider your life choices.

Let’s begin with Christmas, the festival of roasts, relatives, and mild emotional bedlam. The Western world insists on turkey, ham or goose - all of which can be made edible if paired with the right wine. Enter Pinot Noir: light enough that it won’t bully the bird, elegant enough to silence the bore who insists Bordeaux is the only red worth drinking.

If you’re in India or Southeast Asia, where December meals involve fragrant biryani, lamb cooked on a spit for hours, or spiced vegetables, Pinot still plays beautifully, especially those from New Zealand or Oregon. They’re fresh, precise, and have enough fruit to stand up to spice without collapsing into jam.

Then we have Riesling, the quiet genius of white wine. Alsace produces bottles with the aromatic charm and acidic snap to handle roast duck, paneer tikka, or whatever your family calls “fusion cuisine.” A good dry German Riesling is even more versatile - the vinous equivalent of the friend who keeps the peace while everyone else argues about the grape harvest in Tasmania.

December is a global sugar rush disguised as “festival tradition.” Gulab jamuns, pineapple tarts, baklava, rum balls - all waiting to ambush your palate. The secret here is not matching sugar with more sugar; it’s finding balance. Moscato d’Asti is your gentle option: bright, lightly fizzy, and unlikely to leave you feeling embalmed. If you want more depth, a 10- or 20-year Tawny Port delivers caramel, nuts, dried fruit and just enough warmth to get you through long family stories that should qualify as hostage situations.

When it comes to gifting dessert wines, do everyone a favour and skip the dry reds wrapped in shiny paper. Go for Sauternes, Tokaji or a late-harvest Chenin Blanc. They’re thoughtful, memorable, and suggest you actually know the person you’re gifting - or at least made the effort to pretend.

And now, New Year’s Eve: the global ritual where everyone promises self-improvement and then immediately pours another drink. Bubbles are non-negotiable, but Champagne is no longer the only answer. For similar sparkle without the surcharge, try Crémant from the Loire or Alsace, Prosecco Superiore, or an English sparkling wine. Yes, English. It’s good now, honestly. The biggest glow-up since British cuisine discovered seasoning.

If your evening playlist veers from Jagjit Singh to J.Lo., go for rosé bubbles. They’re festive, photogenic and versatile enough to handle sushi, kebabs and whatever late-night snacks you pretend you’re “not really eating.”

For New Year gifting, choose bottles with personality - biodynamic sparkling wine, a local Pét-Nat, or a label artistic enough to earn a place on someone’s shelf long after the wine is gone. People may not remember the taste, but they’ll absolutely remember how clever it made them feel.

If you’re travelling, do yourself a favour and choose screw-cap bottles. Nothing ruins dignity like asking hotel staff for a corkscrew at 2 a.m., unless it’s the realisation that your carefully stored bottle leaked into your luggage.

For gifting, think beyond the usual bottle-in-a-bag approach. A pair of good glasses - not crystal that costs a month’s rent, but not plastic either - instantly elevates your gesture. Bonus points if the recipient feels flattered and vaguely intimidated.

Ultimately, December is a global celebration in different dialects. Christmas brunches in Dubai, reunions in Hanoi, weddings in Jaipur - wine fits everywhere not because it’s traditional, but because it’s adaptable. It navigates cultures like a seasoned diplomat: polite when necessary, bold when encouraged, and always ready to start a conversation.

So buy the good bottle. Chill it properly. Pour with flair. But don’t let the wine steal the spotlight - December belongs to people, not tannins. If someone insists Bordeaux is the only respectable choice, hand them a Crémant and wish them personal growth in the new year.

The best holiday wine is never the one with the highest score. It’s the one you emptied faster than you broke your New Year resolutions.

Wine should be enjoyed. Drink responsibly.
Disclaimer: All links provided in this blog are based on my own research and are not paid or sponsored.

My personal relationship with wine - and a Jancis Robinson win

 

The last blog of our November series on “Building your personal relationship with wine” is very personal. In October 2025, I became the first Indian (and also the first UAE resident) to win the Jancis Robinson Wine Writing Competition. The piece that won? Monsoon Diaries with Riesling – in which I wrote about how Riesling can shine in the Indian monsoon, paired with decadent, deep fried and deliciously spicy Indian food. I described the sheer joy of pairing Riesling with vada-pav. Not exactly Bordeaux terroir, I agree.

The competition brief was deceptively simple: write an ode to a grape. My choice of Riesling, the mercurial diva of the wine world, proposed that this grape, with its high‑wire acidity and mood swings, belongs alongside onion fritters, rain‑slick streets, and the chaos of a season that refuses to be tamed. It was, in essence, rain in a bottle. The judges agreed, including Hugh Johnson OBE, whose World Atlas of Wine has been the bible for six decades, and Jancis Robinson OBE, described as the most respected wine critic and journalist in the world.

This award mattered to me because it recognised a new voice, from a new market. It agreed with my point of view that clarity, originality, and an unabashedly irreverent take on this divine beverage are as important as the heritage and history of this seven thousand year old grape expression.

It told me that wine writing doesn’t have to be a spreadsheet of scores or a catalogue of soil types. It can be a story, a scene, a memory. And it underlined that the readers aren’t looking for another dry recital of tannins; they’re looking for a reason to care.

What lessons from this award can I share with you?

Your story beats their scores. Wine isn't about 92 points. It's about the Kabinett you drank on a wet, foggy day; the Malbec at your first date; the Prosecco that saved a terrible dinner party. Those stories matter. That's your relationship with wine. My win proves it - judges chose a personal story over technical analysis.

Your voice deserves its space. For years, wine writing sounded like textbooks. Dry. Authoritative. Boring. But wine is alive, weird, surprising. If your Chardonnay tastes like "grandma's living room in August," go right ahead and say it. If your Pinot feels moody, own it. Your voice - your specific, cultural, unfiltered voice - is valid. My monsoon piece won because it sounded like me. Yours should sound like you.

Wine Reflects your world: You don't need to copy the Old World. Pair wine with whatever you're actually eating. Let your culture shape your wine experience. Riesling with vada-pav isn't weird - it's honest. The judges got it. You should too.

Wine is not just about terroir and tannins. It’s about people, places, and the stories you share. It is about the freedom to experiment, the courage to defend your taste, and the instinct to use your voice to build bridges across cultures. Because if wine writing is going to matter in new markets, it has to go beyond notes.

Winning the Jancis Robinson Wine Writing Competition wasn’t the end of a journey. It was the start of a chapter where wine writing is less about encyclopaedic authority and more about cultural affinity. When they announced my name, I felt something shift. Not just pride - validation. That the way I see wine - through seasons and street food, through laughter and cultural memory - wasn't niche. It was necessary. And if my voice mattered in this competition, maybe it meant that other voices from India, Thailand, Kenya, wherever - they matter too.

 

Whether you're in Mumbai pairing Prosecco with pakoras, in Bangkok discovering natural wines, or in Nairobi building your first collection - you're not learning to appreciate their wine culture. You're building your own. Your taste is valid. Your voice is what matters. Your culture belongs in wine conversation. You don't need permission from Burgundy to enjoy wine your way.

So here's my commitment as I pour again: to build a voice that respects the Old World, champions the New, and keeps dismantling snobbery one sarcastic line at a time. And to remind readers - whether in Mumbai, Dubai, or Burgundy - that wine is best enjoyed when it feels like rain in a bottle, laughter in a glass, and has a story worth telling.

That's what a personal relationship with wine looks like. And that, really, is worth celebrating.

 

 

Wine should be enjoyed. Drink responsibly.

Disclaimer: All links provided in this blog are based on my own research and are not paid or sponsored.

Wine etiquette for real people: skip the snobbery, keep the skills

 

My first taste of champagne was from a saucer - chipped, heavy, and better suited for strong tea. As a breach of etiquette, it ranked up there with putting your arm around the Queen’s shoulders. But it was ignored because the gathering was a bohemian after‑party, the kind where someone strummed a sitar and someone else’s ex declaimed Proust. No one flinched. And yet, the wine was good. Not because of the glassware, but because someone had chosen it with care and poured it without ceremony.

Fast forward to today’s wine‑curious cities - Nairobi, Bangalore, Jakarta - where young professionals are building their own rituals around wine. These are markets that value etiquette not as performance, but as respect. Respect for ingredients, for history, for the person across the table. And while the old guard may scoff at the idea of wine culture blooming outside Burgundy, the truth is: the new wave is not just catching up - it’s rewriting the rules.

Traditional wine etiquette, the kind whispered through generations of sommeliers and silver service staff, is built on precision. Glass shape matters. Temperature matters. The angle of the pour, the order of service, the way you hold the stem - these are not just affectations. They’re half tradition, half science – technique dressed as manners. But when these rituals pour into new markets, they don’t arrive untouched. They blend. They adapt. They learn to speak the local language - sometimes literally.

In Dubai, you might see a Bordeaux poured with reverence into a tulip glass, followed by a toast that includes three languages and a nod to the chef. In Bangalore, a bottle of Sangiovese might be opened with surgical precision, then paired with jackfruit tacos and served on a terrace where the playlist swings from Lata Mangeshkar to Lizzo. These aren’t breaches of etiquette. It’s evolution.

Real wine etiquette, stripped of its silver service origins, looks different now. It looks like

knowing when to chill your reds - not because a Frenchman told you to, but because your rooftop is 38 degrees and your guests deserve better than lukewarm tannins. It looks like offering the first pour to your guest, not because it’s tradition, but because it’s courtesy. It looks like asking questions, listening to answers, and not pretending to know the difference between Côte‑Rôtie and Crozes‑Hermitage unless you actually do.

It does not look like correcting someone’s pronunciation of “Mourvèdre” at a dinner party – loudly or pianissimo. It does not look like sniffing the cork as if it holds secrets. And it absolutely does not look like gatekeeping - because nothing kills conversation faster than a lecture disguised as hospitality.

And here’s the part nobody likes to say out loud: wine etiquette also means knowing when to stop. Wine is for pleasure, not performance marketing. Nobody’s dazzled by the guest who mistakes stamina for sophistication. And if you don’t drink at all, for reasons of health, faith, preference, or simply because you’d rather have sparkling water with a slice of lime, say so. Real etiquette respects the choice, and the company moves on without fuss.

The beauty of wine etiquette everywhere is that it’s built by people who care. People who read the label, ask the origin, respect the winemaker. People who want to know what makes a wine biodynamic, not just whether it’s “good.” This isn’t snobbery. It’s curiosity. And it’s the best kind.

So if you’re just finding your feet with wine, don’t overthink it. Start with your own taste - if you like it, it’s already doing its job. The right glass helps, of course, but nobody’s grading you if you’re drinking from whatever’s clean (avoid filter coffee tumblers, though.) Temperature matters, but don’t show up with a thermometer at brunch. Fill your glass sensibly - half a gulp, not a swimming pool. Swirl if you must, but keep it subtle; nobody needs a splash of modern art across their pristine shirt front. And above all, do not fake enthusiasm for something just because it’s expensive. Wine is meant to be enjoyed, not endured. Or rated.

Etiquette is not about being correct. It’s also about being considerate. And if someone insists that wine is only valid when served with a twirled moustache and in a crystal decanter, smile, raise your glass, and offer them a second pour.

Real wine etiquette isn't only about the right glass. It's about the right company. And sometimes, a chipped saucer will work very nicely too, thank you very much.

Wine should be enjoyed. Drink responsibly.
Disclaimer: All links provided in this blog are based on my own research and are not paid or sponsored.

Instinct: the key tool for buying the wine you like

 

This month’s all about you: finding your wine personality, building your personal wine cellar. This week we will show you how to let your instinct and likes guide your wine buying.

Wine buying is not a science. Or a test of character. It’s a moment - usually rushed, sometimes planned - when you decide which bottle goes home with you. And unless you’re a négociant or a spreadsheeter with a cellar that requires a security code, instinct is your most reliable tool.

Not ratings. Not apps. Not the guy at the store who says “this one’s very expressive.” Just that little voice in your mind that whispers, “Remember the petrichor when you were drinking that Sula Chenin Blanc?”

Instinct is what kicks in when you’re standing in front of a shelf with 37 bottles without any idea what you’re in the mood for. It’s what helps you ignore the label that looks like a failed art school project and reach for the one that just feels right.

Instinct can be honed. But first, it needs to be trusted.

Most wine buyers - especially in newer markets - navigate imported snobbery, local confusion, and the occasional wine that tastes like it was bottled during a thunderstorm. And suddenly you’re convinced you should know more. Learn to pronounce “Tempranillo” without giggling. Justify why the Chilean red felt right.

Hold it right there. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Buying wine is not Swan Lake. It’s a decision. And the only person you need to impress is yourself.

Instinct builds when you start noticing patterns. The South African Pinotage that worked with the noodles. The Italian red with the weird label that turned out brilliant. The rosé you didn’t expect to like but finished embarrassingly quickly. You realise you’re not a “Rioja person” or an “organic wine person.” You’re someone who likes balance, texture, and wines that don’t put you to sleep.

Over time, instinct sharpens. You stop buying to prove something, and start buying because it simply fits - your mood, your meal, your sense of adventure. It’s liberating once you feel that shift.

And that’s where your rhythm comes in.

Wine buying has rhythm. The shelves you scan first. The importers you quietly trust. Thelittle shortcuts you invent without realising it. The understanding that sometimes a screwcap is a blessing, not a compromise - especially on a Wednesday.

And price? A number, not a personality. Buy a $10 bottle without apology. A $100 bottle without ceremony. The only thing that matters is why you’re buying it - not to impress or posture, just to drink. And yes, sometimes “just because” is a perfectly respectable reason.

Your collection doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. It can hold a ₹900 impulse buy next to a ₹9,000 moment of ambition. Bottles you’ve never heard of and bottles you’ve bought three times. A wine that confused you the first time, but feels like a small personal victory the second. Wines that don’t match your “profile” - because your profile is allowed to change whenever you do.

You’re not curating a museum. You’re stocking a life.

Oh yes, you’ll buy badly. We all do. You’ll pick something that tastes like it was aged in a gym locker. You’ll open it in front of people you like and wish you hadn’t. You’ll learn. You’ll move on. You’ll buy better next time.

That’s not failure. That’s fluency. Or progress.

Instinct isn’t perfect. It’s personal. It’s what separates the buyer who panics and grabs the bottle with the gold foil from the buyer who pauses, scans, and picks the one that just feels right - even if it’s got a jumping kangaroo on it.

And if you’re still wondering whether instinct is enough, here’s the truth: most wine professionals use it too. They just dress it up in jargon. “Structure,” “typicity,” “mid-palate tension,” “tastes like powdered pine needles” - these are just fancy ways of saying, “I’ve tasted enough to know what I like, and this feels right.”

You can do the same. Without the vocabulary. Without the validation. Without the performance.

So, here’s the real advice: trust yourself. Ignore the noise. Forget the pressure. You’re not building a legacy. You’re just trying to make Thursday taste better. And if it works for you - your mood, your meal, your moment - then you’ve nailed it.

No notes. No shame. No imposter syndrome.

Just go grab a bottle and stop overthinking it.

Your wine. Your way.

Wine should be enjoyed. Drink responsibly.
Disclaimer: All links provided in this blog are based on my own research and are not paid or sponsored.

 

Build a personal wine collection (without owning a cellar)

 

My first 'wine collection' was in Dubai - three bottles wrapped in a thick towel inside a cupboard. A Stellenbosch which looked angry. A Prosecco I bought on sale by mistake. A Bordeaux I was scared to open. Two of them were mistakes. One became my go-to.

That's how this works - you learn by drinking, not reading.

But in wine markets like India, Southeast Asia, and Dubai, the idea of a “personal wine collection” still carries a whiff of colonial fantasy - something reserved for retired diplomats and people who say things like “I only drink claret.”

But here’s the twist: building a collection isn’t about hoarding bottles or chasing prestige. It’s about knowing what you like, why you like it, and having a few bottles on hand that make you feel prepared for any occasion, from date night to meltdown.

Why build a collection at all?

Let’s address the elephant in the tasting room: can’t you just pop down to the nearest wine shop when you need a bottle? Of course you can. And you probably will. But here’s the thing - most wine shops stock what sells, not what sings. If your palate leans towards a smoky Syrah or a nervy Albariño, chances are you’ll be met with a wall of Cabernet and a cashier who thinks “dry” means “not fruity.”

A personal collection gives you control. It’s your curated stash of joy, your liquid playlist. It lets you explore styles, regions, and moods without relying on the whims of local inventory. It also gives you bragging rights - because nothing says “I know what I’m pouring” quite like casually referencing your stock of South African Chenin Blanc, aged just enough to sound impressive.

Start small, sip smart

You don’t need 200 bottles. You don’t even need 20. Start with six to twelve wines that cover a range of moods, styles and occasions.

Begin with the weeknight warriors - affordable, drink-now bottles like a Sula Sauvignon Blanc or Chilean Merlot. They pair beautifully with whatever’s left of your ambition after 8 PM.

Add a couple of conversation starters - quirky varietals or unexpected regions (hello, Thai Shiraz) that make guests pause mid-sip. Then a bubbly for those nights when the guest list includes both vegans and vintage stamp collectors. And if you’re patient, a red or two that might actually taste wiser next year.

Buy in pairs - one to drink now, one to save for later. Because wine changes. That Shiraz that’s jammy today might be balanced and brooding in six months. It’s the wine equivalent of journaling - except you get to see how both you and the wine have evolved. And one of you will definitely age better.

Storage: the unsexy truth

Wine is sensitive - it doesn’t like heat, light, or humidity. Which makes most of Asia about as

wine-friendly as a sauna. But that doesn’t mean you can’t store your wine and drink it too.

• 
  Find a cool, dark spot: A cupboard away from direct sunlight and heat. Not the kitchen.
• Avoid temperature swings: Wine hates drama. Keep it stable - ideally between 12–18°C.
• Humidity matters: Too dry and corks shrink; too humid and labels mould. Aim for 60–70% if you’re fancy. If not, just don’t store it next to your idli steamer.
• Invest in a wine fridge: If you’re serious, this is your best bet. Compact models are available, and they’re cheaper than therapy.

Buying without bleeding

You don’t need to bankrupt yourself to build a collection. Here’s how to stay liquid:

• Look beyond France: Great wine comes from everywhere. Portugal, South Africa, Argentina, or even India’s own Nashik Valley. A Bordeaux will add gravitas even if it’s not your style.
• Shop online: Many platforms offer curated selections, discounts, and tasting notes that aren’t written by robots.
• Follow importers and indie stores: Every city has that one wine shop that looks half asleep but hides treasures behind the Rioja wall. For instance, LivingLiquidz (India), Wine Connection (Singapore), African+Eastern (Dubai), Wine Connection (Thailand).
• Ignore ratings: Your palate doesn’t care what someone else thinks.

 

Final sip

Building a collection isn't about having wine. It's about having YOUR wine - bottles you chose, not bottles the shop pushed. It's knowing that when Friday hits and you're too tired to decide, you've already decided. Past You was looking out for Present You. That's not hoarding. That's self-care with a cork.

And if all else fails, just drink it. You can always start again.

Wine should be enjoyed. Drink responsibly.

Disclaimer: All links provided in this blog are based on my own research and are not paid or sponsored.