Kardanakhi Estate — Defining a Style, One Experiment at a Time

Sure! My journey began much earlier, right after the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991. Initially, our family ventured into cattle farming. Bit by bit, as the country was redefining itself, we diversified—first into hazelnuts, and by 2010, we took our first step into viticulture by purchasing vineyards in Lagodekhi. Back in the Soviet days, wines from Lagodekhi had a very particular reputation—they were the cheapest table wines on the market, branded under the name "Hereti," served in Soviet eateries, costing barely 8-10 kopeks. These were humble, working-class wines—simple, juicy, and refreshingly easy to drink. Almost like the Georgian version of Beaujolais. We thought it would be fun to recreate that style—nothing too serious, just light-hearted, nostalgic wines. And so, we did. We still sell most of our fruit from Lagodekhi, but we make a small amount of this Hereti-style wine for ourselves.

Initially, everything was about agriculture. We didn’t intend to produce wines or packaged goods. But over the years, something shifted. First, it happened with our hazelnuts—we started processing them. Then, naturally, we moved toward working with our own grapes. We bottled our first wines in 2015. It wasn’t a grand unveiling; rather, it was a quiet but deliberate step toward understanding what kind of wines we wanted to make. The years since have been all about experimentation—trying to find our rhythm, our voice, our signature style.

It’s a fair question, and one I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about myself. On paper, Lagodekhi has excellent climatic conditions—mild winters, a long growing season, ample sunshine. But there are two core challenges. First, water—Lagodekhi is surrounded by water flows, and the landscape tends toward marshiness. For viticulture, that's a problem. Vines don’t want to sit in wet feet. Second, the topography—particularly on the left bank—is quite flat. The slopes near the mountains are ideal, but they’re mostly protected as nature reserves. So most vineyards end up on flatlands, and in Lagodekhi, flatland often means poor drainage. Essentially, you’re dealing with an environment that's both too wet and too shallow in topographical variation.

We already had some vineyards in Kardanakhi, but the winery itself came much later. My connection to this area is deeply personal. My great-grandfather was from Anaga, which is just next door. He had a marani and vineyards there, but during the Soviet era, he was sent to the Gulag. The estate was divided up among relatives, and our branch of the family ended up with nothing. Years later, I tried to track down and buy back the ruins from our relatives, but it didn’t work out. Then, during the pandemic, we temporarily moved from Tbilisi to Lagodekhi. Around that time, this old estate in Kardanakhi came up for sale. We’d admired it for years—it’s right on the main road between Tbilisi and Lagodekhi, and we’d often slow down just to look at it. So when it went on the market, we jumped at the chance.

The place was in rough shape—one entire wall had collapsed, and there was no roof. We approached the restoration thoughtfully. Wherever new construction was necessary, we made it visibly new. But wherever there was something left to save, we preserved it exactly as it was. Our first priority in 2020 was to get the marani—our wine cellar—ready for harvest. Everything else was done slowly, as time and resources allowed.

The building itself turned out to have a fascinating history. We brought in ethnographic architect Tatia Gvineria to do a proper study. Her research showed the original structure dates back to 1886. It was officially registered by 1900, and already visible on maps by 1912. According to local accounts, the first documented harvest took place there in 1904.

Even among Kakheti’s famous appellations, Kardanakhi stands out. It's a terroir of contrasts. Summers are brutally hot—temperatures often climb past 40°C. But thanks to the nearby mountains, we’re shielded from the western heatwaves. We also benefit from dramatic diurnal shifts—temperature differences between day and night can reach 10-15°C. Winters, on the other hand, are absolutely freezing. So the climate pushes vines hard. Then there's the soil. We have some of the highest clay content in all of Kakheti—up to 70% in some parcels. That’s way more than what you’d find even in neighboring villages like Anaga. And clay, as you know, holds water. But our vineyards sit at 400–450 meters above sea level, on a slight slope, which balances the water retention. It creates this odd equation: on paper, you'd expect big, rich, heavy amber wines. But in practice, the best Tsarapi wines from Kardanakhi are fresh, herbal, even lifted and elegant.

When we talk terroir, we also have to talk about variety selection. People often forget this—Rkatsiteli and all other major white varieties in Kakheti were bred and cultivated specifically for skin-contact winemaking. That’s what they were made for. Sure, you can make orange wine with Chardonnay or Riesling. But the moment you do, you understand how well-suited Rkatsiteli is for this purpose.

On our estate in Kardanakhi, we have Rkatsiteli, Saperavi, and just recently, Mtsvivani. Beyond that, we also purchase grapes from other parts of Kakheti for experimental purposes—to see what works and what doesn't, and maybe one day plant them ourselves. So far, we've sourced Kisi from Akhmeta, Khikhvi from Shakriani, and Mtsvane from Kakabeti. Each one was chosen for a specific style and vision I had in mind.

We’ve been talking a lot about Kardanakhi and Tsarapi, but I truly believe that nearly every village in Kakheti has something unique to offer. The micro-differences in soil, elevation, exposure—they’re real, and they show up in the wines. One of our big responsibilities as winemakers is to educate people about these nuances.

Right now, we’re producing 20 different labels, which is quite a bit for a small, family-run operation like ours. Some days I think that’s the limit—but then again, every vintage brings new ideas. Among those 20 labels, we’ve got three styles of Chacha: a classic base version, another infused with bay leaf—since bay trees are absolutely taking over the area here—and a third that’s been aged in oak, which really rounds it out and gives it this subtle spice and toast character. The bay leaf version is actually made with cold-pressed extract from fresh local bay, and it’s become a bit of a local curiosity.

We also make a vermouth, and as far as I know, it's the only Georgian-produced vermouth on the market right now. What I love about vermouth is that every country has its own spin—Italian vermouths lean toward citrus, French vermouths have that beautiful herbal-citrus balance, and as you go further north, it becomes this fully herbal experience. I wanted ours to feel distinctly Georgian. So I started working with wild herbs we forage ourselves—wormwood, obviously, but also tarragon, cornelian cherry, quince, and more. It’s a whole project in itself.

Then there’s the fortified red—our classic Kardanakhi-style sweet wine, made with Saperavi, sitting at 16% alcohol and 16% residual sugar. We fortify it with Saperavi distillate. It’s bold, structured, velvety—very old school. We’re also aging a port-style dessert wine that won’t be bottled until 2030. That one is still resting in oak and developing slowly, layer by layer.

As for our still wines, we have four different Rkatsiteli wines: one is Udedo, a non-skin-contact wine made in Qvevri using just the free-run juice from a soft press; then there’s a classic skin-contact version, another that’s aged in oak, and a fourth done with bâtonnage, where the wine stays on the lees for an extended period and is stirred regularly for texture and complexity.

We also make two Saperavis—one is a lighter, fresher expression with minimal skin contact, and the other is a full-bodied, traditional red with deep extraction and structure. We bottle varietal wines from Mtsvane, Kisi, and Khikhvi as well. And since 2021, we've been aging a Saperavi-based brandy distilled at 78% ABV in oak. It’s not on the market yet, but it’s quietly evolving into something quite special.

Absolutely. Udedo is one of those old Kakhetian techniques that people forgot about, but it’s well worth reviving. The name literally means “motherless,” with the “mother” referring to the skins. It’s a wine made in Qvevri, but without the skins—it’s made from the free-run juice of a very soft press, basically just gravity and a gentle touch. In a way, it’s the cousin of the skin-contact wines, but with a completely different personality.

Udedo wines are lighter, more aromatic, and a bit more playful. They don’t have the same grip or structure as full six-month skin-macerated wines, but they’re not simple either. There’s texture from the Qvevri, and they definitely speak of the place. They’re not white wines in the European sense—they still have that Qvevri soul—but they come across as more approachable, especially for people new to Georgian wine.

I’ve played with all kinds of durations. I’ve done the classic six months, and I’ve also gone beyond—12 months, 18 months, even 24. At the same time, I’ve been experimenting with vineyard age—young vines, 35-year-old vines, and vines over 60. I’ve also fermented and aged grapes separately based on their condition—pure, undamaged fruit; minor damage; and fruit with significant blemishes. The goal was to understand how each factor interacts with our terroir. What I’ve found is that in our soils, the 35-year-old Rkatsiteli vines offer the best balance. But that’s very site-specific. The same vine age in limestone or sandy soils might behave totally differently.

When sourcing fruit for Khikhvi, for instance, I deliberately chose younger vines. I wasn’t chasing aromatic complexity—I was after freshness, linearity, and minerality. The vitality of youth gives me that.

No, and that’s intentional. We age our wines in Caucasian oak. Just like with the grapes and the clay for our Qvevris, we want our vessels to reflect our region. Local oak, local clay, local hands.

Porosity. Caucasian oak has significantly larger pores, so the oxygen exchange is more intense, which speeds up the aging process. Aromatics are more pronounced, and the wine evolves faster. What takes three years in French oak can often be achieved in one year with our local oak. That doesn’t make it better or worse—just different. And for our style, it fits.

Yes—and interestingly, that aligns with traditional Kakhetian wisdom. After all those trials, I also found that six months works best for our grapes and conditions. But again, we follow natural practices here. We don’t adhere to formulas or set durations. It’s all about what the vintage gives us. One year might favor four months; another might demand the full six. We adapt. Our goal isn’t to replicate the same wine each year like a factory. We’re trying to express the vineyard, the variety, the season—and hopefully, you can taste a clear thread running through all our wines.

Definitely. For starters, they’re thicker—much thicker—than the ones you find in Western Georgia. The shape is also different: rounder, with a broader central cavity for the wine. That design reflects two things. First, the thicker walls provide better insulation in our soil, which is denser and richer. Second, because Kakhetian winemaking traditionally uses a high proportion of skins, the Qvevri needed a wider body to accommodate that volume.

We’re still a young winery—only five years in at this location. In my vision, we’ll reach maturity around the ten-year mark. By then, I’d like to have our complete lineup in place, with all the styles and varieties we believe in. Our sweet wines will have matured properly, and we’ll have a clear, deep sense of identity.

We’re also looking at expanding our vineyards, potentially at higher elevations. That’ll depend on the data we gather over the next few years—how the grapes behave, how the wines turn out. And on top of all that, we’re quietly developing a new project—something completely different. I can’t say much yet, but it involves creating health and beauty products using grape skins, seeds, and other elements we already work with. It's a whole other world, but just like with winemaking, it's about using what nature gives us to its fullest potential.