On a cold, bright Saturday afternoon in January, a student couple entered my Cambridge wine shop-bar, Amphora. It was early and the venue was empty. After glancing at the extensive by-the-glass list, the girl, perhaps deciding that a glass of wine was inadequate for her purposes, went to select a bottle from the shelves. She settled for a safe Côtes du Rhône, a kind of default choice. I generally try not to let judgement about people’s drink-in wine selections show, but privately thought, “At least go for a Cru – you’re on a date!” 40 minutes or so later, I understood. The boy was sobbing. The bottle was empty. He’d just been dumped, over a bottle of sub-villages-level red, albeit from a good producer. I hid behind the bar, noise-cancelling headphones in my ears, trying not to be witness to this sad scene. The girl hurriedly paid for the bottle and led the boy out. On reflection, the Côtes du Rhône did seem appropriate – why invest in a Cru when you’re about to liquidate your investment in another human?

In my world, romance is inextricably tied to wine. Wine is paired with social situation more than with food, serving as a purveyor of delight, social lubricant, status symbol, and filter for potential friends and lovers.

If Côtes du Rhône is break-up wine, then what would be first-date wine? On Valentine’s Day 2024, I hosted a social experiment called Fluid Exchange, with the subtitle “Spit or swallow, the choice is

This Article was originally published on Tim Atkin

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