Ancient Wine Cradle
Why do we like to drink wine? Is it simply the joy of a good buzz, or is there something deeper, something written into our very biology? The answer might be found swinging through the trees.
Professor Robert Dudley of UC Berkeley proposed the "Drunken Monkey Hypothesis," suggesting that our love of alcohol might be rooted in evolution. In tropical environments, ripe fruit naturally ferments. When yeast in the air lands on a fruit's sugar-rich flesh, it creates alcohol as a byproduct of fermentation. Primates learned to seek out the ripest, often slightly fermented fruit, because it was calorie-dense, packed with nutrients, and—bonus!—offered a bit of a happy high.
Fast forward thousands of years, and we're still foraging, just now in grocery stores and wine shops. That evolutionary inheritance might explain why fermented beverages have followed us throughout history, intertwining with religion, medicine, celebration, and trade.
Though the origins of wine have long been debated—was it China, the Middle East, or somewhere else?—the evidence keeps pointing us back to the rugged beauty of the Southern Caucasus Mountains. In 2004, an article in Scientific American introduced new evidence uncovered by Dr. Patrick McGovern of the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Excavations in Jiahu, a Neolithic village in Henan Province, China, revealed ancient ceramics bearing chemical traces of rice, honey, grape, and hawthorn. Musical instruments, such as early flutes, were also found, painting a picture of a society that celebrated life with sound and sips. Was it wine in the Western sense? Not exactly. These were likely early versions of rice wine infused with fruit and herbs. But the fact remains: fermentation was already a known—and valued—process by 7000 BC. McGovern's later research confirmed a fermented beverage in Iran dating back to 5400 BC, nudging the story closer to the Caucasus. The link between fermented drinks and early human settlements grows stronger. In Israel's Raqefet Cave, 13,000-year-old mortars containing fermented starches were discovered. Researchers believe this is the earliest evidence of beer brewing. These people weren't just making gruel—they were celebrating.
As agriculture developed, humans cultivated grains not just for bread, but also for brewing. Egypt turned beer into currency and a hygienic drink in a time before clean water. Microbes did more than ferment; they made food safer, more digestible, and nutritionally richer. Fermentation, it turns out, gave us vitamin C, improved gut health, and made tough foods more edible.
When it comes to wine as we know it, though, the story converges in the Southern Caucasus—an ancient crossroads between Europe and Asia, nestled between the Black Sea and Persia. Today, Turkey, Iran, Armenia, and Georgia all claim a piece of the honor as wine's birthplace. Genetic testing of grape residues found in these regions—particularly from clay jars—reveals strong matches to indigenous varieties still thriving today. Grapes like Rkatsiteli and Saperavi are among the oldest known cultivated vines. Gouais Blanc may be the prolific parent of many modern grape varieties, but the purest form of Vitis vinifera—the Eurasian wine grape—has roots here. Thousands of years of selective breeding, climate adaptation, and cultural exchange turned wild vines into the sophisticated varietals of Europe. But the genetic fingerprint always points back to the Caucasus.
It's a contest steeped in both archaeology and nationalism. In 2011, National Geographic reported the discovery of the world's oldest known winery in Armenia—a 6,000-year-old facility complete with a grape press, fermentation vats, and dried vines. Nearby, archaeologists even found the world's oldest leather shoe, dated to 5,500 years ago. Patrick McGovern—yes, the same from China—reviewed the evidence and confirmed it as a genuine wine-making site. The grapes used were identified as Vitis vinifera, meaning that by this time, Eurasian grapes had already been domesticated.
But Georgia's claim may go back even farther. Georgia is home to more than 500 indigenous grape varieties, many of which are still used in winemaking today, and many of which still have a link to the purest DNA. The country's climate and soil made it an ideal incubator for viticulture, and its winemaking techniques remain deeply traditional. But does tradition alone validate an oldest winemaking claim? The Georgians proudly declare 8,000 years of continuous winemaking tradition. And unlike archaeological sites that hint at sporadic production, Georgian viticulture has persisted unbroken. In 2012, McGovern published research dating winemaking in the region to 6000 BCE, based on qvevri (large, egg-shaped clay vessels) containing wine residue.
UNESCO has recognized the Georgian method of fermenting wine in qvevris—clay vessels buried underground—as part of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. This method isn't just for show; it's a natural temperature-control system, allowing fermentation to happen steadily and cleanly.
Making qvevri wine begins in the vineyard, where traditional grape varieties like Rkatsiteli, Mtsvane, and Kisi are harvested between mid-September and mid-October. The goal isn't just sugar for alcohol, but flavor from the grape skins, seeds, and stems. The grapes are crushed using a sacnaheli—essentially a large wooden press, often stomped by foot. The juice and pulp, known as chacha, are poured directly into a qvevri, which is buried underground with only the lid exposed. Natural yeast from the air and what was developed inside the berry begins fermentation. As the yeast consumes the sugar, it produces alcohol, carbon dioxide, and heat. The carbon dioxide escapes through the loose lid, while the surrounding earth helps dissipate the heat, keeping the internal temperature around 23°C (73°F). This steady fermentation extracts tannins, aromas, and flavors from the grape skins, giving qvevri wines their distinct texture and depth. Malolactic fermentation follows, softening the acidity and adding complexity. The wine is then aged in the same qvevri for months, often without filtration.
There are huge differences between Qvevri and Amphora. Don't confuse them! Though both are ancient clay vessels, the qvevri is for fermentation and storage, always buried in the earth. Amphorae, on the other hand, were portable transport vessels with handles, made from finer clay and often glazed to prevent leakage. The qvevri's coarse clay and low, steady kiln temperature create a porous vessel that breathes, allowing micro-oxidation—an important part of the winemaking process. In contrast, amphorae were designed for shipping wine, not making it.
While Georgia and Armenia may argue over who was first, Turkey holds a special place in the history of wine. Around 5000 BCE, Central and Eastern Anatolia were home to a rich variety of indigenous grapes. Trade routes carried wine westward to Greece, Rome, and beyond. Wine production flourished even under Ottoman rule, especially in Christian communities. Today, Cappadocia, Thrace, and the Aegean coast are seeing a viticultural revival. Turkish winemakers are rediscovering their native grapes and traditional methods, creating wines that echo the region's deep past.
The Southern Caucasus is more than just a place where wine was born. It's where wine grew up—where it was nurtured, experimented with, and woven into the culture. From ancient qvevries buried in Georgian soil, to fermentation vats tucked inside Armenian caves, this region continues to teach us about wine's past and inspire its future. Whether you raise a glass of amber-hued qvevri wine or a bold Turkish red, you're tasting more than fermented grape juice. You're sipping the story of civilization itself—a tale of monkeys, microbes, and the mountains that cradled our first vines.
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