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The room was a classroom in the sense that it had a “teacher” and “students”. Knowledge was being imparted. Lessons were being absorbed. There were books, pencils, a screen, and a lady at the front throwing questions at people seated behind a long table. But there were things which one doesn’t find in a classroom. The students did not have uniforms and school bags. Instead, they had stemware in front of them, with red and white liquids. The lady was not holding a pointer, but

I was invited to a friend's house for a celebration dinner of some sort. He was a banker. Worldly-wise, well-travelled. Liked the finer things in life. The trophy watch, the nice car, the fancy crystal. He offered me a wine glass with a deep red liquid. He had one in his hand too. He sniffed it. Rolled it. Held the glass against the light. Took a sip. Chewed the liquid. And smacked his lips. “Non-alcoholic wine is SO good.” I looked at him. Then at the liquid. Took a tentativ

I have lived in Dubai for 20 years, and have watched it go through waves of development and growth that most other cities would be lucky to experience in a century. I have explored most parts of the city, eaten and drunk in more restaurants than I did anywhere else, and discovered some absolutely fantastic wines along the way. Yes, Dubai has wines. And very good ones too. And a growing wine culture. There is no vineyard in the desert. No ancient château overlooking Dubai Cree

I lived for the first 25 years of my life in Mumbai. I have been a non-resident for the last 30. So, I have no business pretending to know every new restaurant, wine space, or fashionable neighbourhood. But I know the city. Or at least, I know what it feels like when Mumbai decides to make something its own. Wine is one such thing. For decades, the city treated European labels like imported luxury sports cars: stuck in traffic, slightly overheating, but undeniable proof that

A perfectly groomed, coat-tailed man stands in an air-conditioned room, holding a bottle in two hands as if it were a fragile archaeological specimen. He is explaining, with considerable gravity and solemn affirmation, that the soil beneath the vines was last turned during the reign of Louis XV. The small audience nods slowly, assuming an appropriate expression of earnest deference. No one is paying attention to the temperature in the room, the noise outside, or the complete

The plastic card feels heavier than it is. I have owned it for forty-two minutes. It sits in my wallet between a gym membership I have used exactly once, and my driver’s licence. Three weeks of documents that would make a bureaucrat faint with delight, employer NOCs and residency checks have finally delivered my permission to buy wine in Dubai. I intend to use it properly. Tonight, I have an occasion. I want one good bottle. A bottle that looks as though I have thought about

A customer stands in a boutique wine shop, holding a bottle by its neck, turning it slowly under the amber glow of a spotlight. The shop smells of cedar shelving, old cardboard and the chill of an industrial cooling unit. Outside, evening traffic hums. Inside, time has slowed to the cadence of a dinner party. The label: "Look at me. Three-hundred-gram cream stock. Heavy embossing. Gold foil stamped in Florence. I cost more to print than the grapes cost to harvest." The custom

Someone at the table always checks the price before they've finished the first sip. Not out loud, not directly - a glance at the label, a private calculation, then a small adjustment in posture, the shoulders settling as though a decision has just been ratified. What follows that calculation is more interesting than the wine itself. I watched it happen properly last month. A host poured a wine, said nothing about what it cost, and let six people taste it cold. Half called it

The contract lay unopened between two folded linen napkins. Across the table, my dining companion rested a silver pen beside it with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to making decisions before dessert. Neither of us reached for it. Instead, we watched the sommelier arrive carrying a bottle that looked almost apologetic. No grand flourish. No theatrical presentation. Just a chilled red wine beaded with condensation, placed gently between four dishes that had land

He drops his keys on the counter with the kind of exhaustion that doesn't need witnesses. The flat is quiet in that particular weekday way - not peaceful, just indifferent. On the table sits a bag from the neighbourhood takeaway, still warm, radiating the kind of fragrant force that announces itself before it is opened. Chilli, garlic, pepper, something fermented, something sweet. A whole geography of flavour compressed into a cardboard box. He knows exactly what the food wil

I watched the glossy dollop of XO sauce splash directly onto a pristine mound of jasmine rice. Next to the plate, a bottle of mature Barolo stood like a Victorian schoolmaster who had wandered into a busy street market and kept talking anyway, certain that volume would substitute for comprehension. The cork had been extracted twenty minutes earlier, yet the bottle remained rigidly upright, sweating under the glare of the low-hanging dining room lamp, speaking a language nobod

At a private dining room in Bangkok, the seating plan told you everything about hierarchy except where the wine was going. The boss held court from the head of the table, working steadily through a shared platter of tom yum prawns with the confidence of a man who has never once waited for anyone else to finish a dish. Around him, six colleagues talked over each other in three languages, forks moving faster than the conversation. Beside him, a junior analyst - freshly assigned

There is something profoundly annoying about the way the uninitiated romanticise the monsoon. We are constantly served the same syrupy fantasy: a soft blanket, a good book, a glass of something light and floral, and rain tapping politely at the window. This is charming fiction, if you have never actually lived through a monsoon. Particularly a monsoon in Mumbai, a city that takes its weather personally. The real thing is less hygge, more atmospheric siege. The sky bruises wit

The air conditioner in the taxi sounds like a failing gearbox, which feels entirely appropriate for the season. It is June in the tropics. The sun, after weeks of bullying the asphalt into submission, has finally run out of conviction. It has retreated behind a sheet of bruised, charcoal cloud, leaving everything in a state of suspended hesitation. A humid in-between where nothing quite commits, except the mosquitoes and the rising price of vegetables. Schools have reopened.

There is a particular kind of optimism required to schedule food at midday in Dubai in June. It is not the gentle optimism of a morning walk or the rational optimism of a well-made plan. It is a more muscular belief system, one that assumes human beings can gather in large numbers under glass, in climate-controlled environments, and behave as though the sun is merely decorative. Brunch, of course, is the chosen ritual for this experiment. Dubai brunches are no longer meals. T

The sommelier held the bottle of premium Bordeaux like a fragile, sacred relic, his thumb resting nervously against the cork. He cleared his throat, his voice dropping into that familiar, reverent register reserved for things that are both old and French. ‘Sir,’ he whispered, leaning into the table with genuine, existential concern. ‘The cellar is experiencing a slight fluctuation tonight. This is currently sitting at eighteen degrees. I must strongly advise we wait twenty mi

The man in the tailored linen jacket swirled his glass with a rhythmic, practiced intensity, his eyes locked on the swirling crimson liquid as if waiting for an oracle to speak. We were sitting in a restaurant in the financial district of Dubai, where the air conditioning was set to a freezing corporate chill. He tilted his head, took a long, meditative sip, and let out a soft, appreciative hum. “The terroir here is unmistakable,” he told me, pointing a finger at the bottle.

The heavy, dark bottle of Australian Shiraz sat somewhat tentatively on the crisp white tablecloth, radiating a subtle, ambient warmth. But the man at the table wasn't looking at the bottle. Nor was he admiring the elegantly designed label front. He was squinting at the tiny print on the back with the concentration of someone checking interest rates before signing a mortgage. His finger moved past the references to ancient vines, hillside sun, and hand-harvested fruit until

The bottle lands before the guests. It is placed deliberately - label facing outward, price bracket radiating from the glass like a quietly held secret that the host would very much like everyone to notice. He adjusts it twice. Not because it needs adjusting. Because someone might walk in and miss it. No one comments. No one needs to. The bottle has already done its job. This is the modern wine ritual in markets where success must be seen, not inferred. In these rooms – Dubai

The minibus arrives at half past ten. A dozen young Asian tourists, global professionals, step out into the gravel car park of a Burgundy domaine. They are dressed well - better than the vineyard, frankly. Trainers that cost more than the tasting fee. Phones already out. They did not come here to be educated. They came because the château appeared on a list someone shared in a group chat two weeks ago, tagged with a fire emoji and the words "you have to go." The winemaker's d