Thanks for the wine. We’re not opening it.
A beverage that’s supposed to represent generosity and celebration can inspire a surprising amount of social awkwardness.
People want to bring something special. Hosts want everyone to feel welcome. Wine enthusiasts get excited about sharing bottles they love. And somewhere in all those good intentions, we’ve invented an elaborate set of unwritten rules.
It’s actually quite endearing when you think about it. The guest who’s proud of the bottle they found, the host who’s been saving something wonderful, the friend who’s convinced their favorite chardonnay will change everyone’s life—they’re all coming from the same place: a desire to share something they enjoy.
And yet, few things expose the strange social politics of wine quite like showing up at someone’s house with a bottle.
As holiday gatherings approach, it’s time to discuss the strange, occasionally ridiculous and ultimately well-intentioned rituals of bringing wine to dinner.
A gift is a gift, not a hostage negotiation
Let’s establish something right away: When you bring wine to someone’s home, it’s generally considered a gift for the host. It’s not an admission ticket, an invitation to critique the beverage program, or a contractual obligation requiring immediate consumption.
Once you hand over that bottle, you’ve surrendered custody. Your host can open it that evening, save it for New Year’s Eve, or enjoy it on a random Tuesday with leftover pizza. You don’t get visitation rights. Yet somewhere along the way, we’ve developed this expectation that bringing wine means we should get to drink it, too.
And that anticipation seems to grow in direct proportion to the price. Bring a $20 bottle, and nobody bats an eye when it’s tucked away. Bring an $80 cabernet, and suddenly it seems worthy of a ceremonial unveiling, preferably accompanied by applause and a brief speech about the vintage.
But here’s the thing: That $80 cabernet may be fabulous, but that doesn’t mean it’s invited to every course.
A powerful Napa cabernet can be a challenging companion to turkey, cranberry sauce or a casserole involving marshmallows. Price, prestige and glowing scores don’t necessarily make a wine right for the meal.
Of course, I’m a firm believer that personal preference trumps almost every so-called wine rule. If you love cabernet, enjoy it. Your dad only drinks IPAs? Have a six-pack in the cooler. If Aunt Linda wants moscato with her turkey, let Aunt Linda have moscato with her turkey.
There’s no medal awarded for converting your relatives into Châteauneuf-du-Pape lovers over the holidays.
Bringing wine you actually want to drink is a different arrangement
Sometimes we bring wine as a gift. Other times, we’ve discovered something extraordinary and desperately want everyone else to appreciate it as much as we do.
I’ll admit I’m frequently guilty of the latter. I’m the person who shows up with a bottle made from an obscure grape grown on the side of a mountain in a country half the table couldn’t find on a map.
“You’re going to love this!” I’ll announce enthusiastically, while everyone eyes the bottle with the suspicion usually reserved for experimental medications. Then I’ll launch into an unsolicited explanation about the vineyard, the winemaker, and why this particular indigenous grape is so fascinating.
Meanwhile, everyone just wants a glass of Sancerre.
The wonderful thing about wine enthusiasts is that we genuinely love sharing discoveries. The trick for us is remembering that not everyone wants an impromptu master class before dinner.
If you’ve found something you’re dying to share, a quick conversation with your host beforehand goes a long way. And if the evening’s wines are already planned, you can always share your find on another occasion.
If your host opens a box of Franzia, behave yourself
As someone who works in wine, I can assure you there’s a special kind of anxiety that comes with inviting a sommelier over for dinner.
People apologize for the wine before I’ve even taken off my coat. “Oh, I hope this is OK. I know you’re a wine person.”
Or worse, they hand me a glass with the disclaimer, “It’s probably not something you’d ever drink.”
For the love of all things fermented, please stop apologizing. Not every glass needs to be a profound intellectual experience. Sometimes I just want something pleasant to drink, a plate of lasagna, and a conversation that doesn’t involve soil composition or malolactic fermentation.
If your host opens an inexpensive chianti, smile and say thank you. There’s no need to swirl, sniff and deliver a detailed analysis of its tannin structure.
Some of my most memorable glasses weren’t particularly extraordinary wines. They were memorable because of the people I shared them with.
There’s a time and place for critical evaluation. Your neighbor’s Thanksgiving table probably isn’t it.
The Vivino detective: “Hold on, let me see what this scores”
Every gathering seems to have one—the friend who can’t enjoy a glass of wine without consulting the collective wisdom of several thousand strangers on the internet.
The cork comes out; glasses are poured; and before anyone takes a sip, out comes the phone. “Hang on, let me look this up.”
Suddenly, dinner has become an episode of CSI: Wine Country.
That’s not how gifts work. You wouldn’t bring your host a scented candle, notice they hadn’t lit it by dessert, and quietly slip it back into your handbag.
The label is photographed; the vintage is verified; and the investigation is under way. Within seconds, the verdict arrives. “Hmmm. Only 3.7 stars.”
Well, that’s disappointing. We were all enjoying it 30 seconds ago.
Don’t get me wrong; Vivino and other wine apps can be terrific tools for discovering bottles, remembering favorites, and learning about unfamiliar regions. Curiosity is a wonderful thing.
But there’s a difference between using an app to learn about a wine, and using it to decide whether you’re allowed to like it.
Wine is wonderfully subjective. One person’s five-star revelation might be another person’s forgettable Tuesday-night pour. So before reaching for your phone, take a sip. Decide what you think. Your palate might disagree with the internet.
No, you cannot take the bottle home
One final etiquette mystery deserves attention: What happens when nobody opens the wine you brought?
I’ll tell you what doesn’t happen: You don’t take it home.
I realize this may disappoint anyone who’s arrived with a beautiful pinot noir, watched it sit untouched all evening and thought, “Well, if we’re not drinking it here …”
No. That’s not how gifts work. You wouldn’t bring your host a scented candle, notice they hadn’t lit it by dessert, and quietly slip it back into your handbag.
Wine is no different.
Of course, a casual gathering where everyone contributes bottles to share is another story. But a genuine host gift doesn’t come with a return policy.
Thanksgiving has a remarkable way of reminding us that good manners and good wine aren’t necessarily the same thing. I’ve had extraordinary bottles served by terrible hosts and thoroughly forgettable wines poured by people whose tables I never wanted to leave.
So this holiday season, bring a bottle. Bring something you love, something you think your host might enjoy, or something you found on sale that looked vaguely promising. Hand it over; say thank you; and then do something truly extraordinary: Forget about it.
The best thing you can bring to someone’s table isn’t necessarily the wine. It’s the ability to enjoy whatever ends up in your glass.
