The Vineyard Behind the House

There’s something about a good wine that holds its own in silence. It doesn’t try too hard. It doesn’t shout. It just exists, calm and self-assured, like someone who knows they don’t need to prove anything.

I grew up in Hungary, where wine is a way of life. Behind our house, my family owned a small vineyard. Perfect rows of vines soaking up the sunlight, season after season. Some of the sweetest grapes I’ve ever tasted grew there. I remember going out with my grandad to help press them right there on-site. No hauling things back to the house. No barefoot crushing. Just proper equipment, patience, and pride. He made red wine that would silence a room. It wasn’t sold or shared widely. It was just ours. Pure tradition in a bottle.

Those early memories are some of the best I’ve got. I can still see his face, feel the heat of the sun, and smell the thick, sweet juice that ran down my hands. Pure bliss. The kind of memories you don’t forget, even if you tried.

Later on, my father introduced me to a wine that brought all of it back in an instant. Tokaji Szamorodni. Golden, smooth, with soft notes of apricot, honey, and just enough acidity to keep it interesting. That first glass made me pause. It had the same quiet depth my grandad’s red carried. The kind of wine that doesn’t just taste good, it tells a story.

That wine could put people to sleep. In the best way. Soft, comforting, and deep enough to make the whole world slow down for a while. No stress, no noise, just the warm hum of something made right.

Szamorodni is still my absolute favourite. And if you ever want to try something more under the radar, I’d recommend Meiser Dornfelder. A rich red that doesn’t ask for attention but always earns it.

Best enjoyed slowly. Preferably with a Davidoff cigar in one hand.

Bonus points if your fiancée’s across the table, with a look that says she might steal your last sip or your sanity depending on her mood. That kind of danger pairs perfectly with the right glass.

Wine, for me, is more than taste. It is family. It is memory. It is the feeling of walking through vines as a child, not knowing that those moments would become the ones I’d hold onto forever. It is my grandad’s hands stained deep from the harvest. It is my father’s quiet voice saying “try this” and passing me something that felt like home.

The world moves fast now. Everything wants to be louder, faster, shinier. But wine reminds me that the best things take time. That meaning comes from depth, not noise.

And every time I raise a glass, I feel them both, my father and my grandfather, standing with me.

Here’s to them.