By Prof. Giorgi Pkhakadze, MD, MPH, PhD · 15/09/2026
In every Kakhetian farmhouse there is a room, usually a little cooler than the rest, with a floor of packed earth or old stone. Set into that floor are circles — sometimes one, sometimes twenty — each capped with a wooden lid and sealed with a ring of clay. Under each circle is a qvevri: an egg-shaped clay vessel, anywhere from the size of a barrel to the size of a small car, buried to its neck.
This is the marani, the wine cellar, and it is the reason Georgian wine tastes like nothing else on earth.
What the pot does
The method is almost insultingly simple. In October the grapes are crushed — skins, stems, pips and all — and poured into the qvevri. It is sealed. The earth around it holds the temperature steady at about 14 degrees all year. The wine ferments on its skins for weeks, then sits on them for months, sometimes until the following spring. Nothing is added. Nothing is removed. Then the lid comes off and the wine is drawn up with a ladle.
Three things follow. The skins give white grapes colour, so Georgian “white” wine is amber, orange, sometimes the colour of strong tea. The stems and pips give tannin, so an amber wine has the grip of a red. And the clay, fired and lined with beeswax, lets the wine breathe very slowly without adding any flavour of its own — no oak, no vanilla, only grape and earth and time.
The egg shape is not decoration. As the wine ferments, the sediment slides down the curved walls to the narrow point at the bottom and stays there, out of the way. Georgian potters worked this out several thousand years before anyone had a word for “lees”.
Eight thousand years, no gap
In 2017 archaeologists announced that pottery shards from two Neolithic villages south of Tbilisi carried traces of tartaric acid — wine — dated to about 6000 BC. That made Georgia the oldest winemaking culture known. But the date is less remarkable than the continuity. The Greeks made wine in clay; so did the Romans. They stopped. Georgians did not: through Arab rule, Mongol invasions, Persian occupation and seventy years of Soviet collective farming that tried to replace the qvevri with steel tanks, families kept a marani and kept using it. UNESCO put the method on its heritage list in 2013; Kakheti had never noticed it was heritage.
Who makes the pot
A qvevri is not thrown on a wheel. It is built by hand, coil on coil, over weeks, by a handful of families in a handful of villages — Vardisubani near Telavi is the best known. The clay is local and particular; the firing takes days in a pit kiln; the inside is coated with hot beeswax while the vessel is still warm. A good qvevri lasts for generations. Some in use today were made before the Russian Empire arrived.
Watching a qvevri-maker work is watching the Bronze Age with a mobile phone in its pocket. It is one of the quietest, most absorbing hours you can spend in Georgia.
How to drink it
Approach amber wine as you would a red: room temperature or a little below, with food. Rkatsiteli is the everyday grape, dry and nutty; Kisi and Mtsvane are more perfumed; Saperavi, the great red, comes out of the qvevri almost black. The first sip can be a surprise — dried apricot, walnut, something like tea. By the third, most people are converts.
See it with GTour
Every one of our Kakheti tours includes a family marani, a look inside an open qvevri and a tasting with the winemaker: the Kakheti wine country day from Tbilisi, or the three-day Grand Wine & Heritage tour, which also visits a qvevri workshop. In late September and October, join the harvest itself on the Rtveli tour.
ქართულად: ქვევრი — რატომ მარხავენ ქართველები ღვინოს მიწაში
