Reunion on the Wine Shelf

Peter Lehmann Portrait Shiraz, or why a good wine doesn’t need a bar that no longer exists

The other day I was standing in an Edeka supermarket, somewhere between the pasta aisle and the bottle return machine, not really looking for anything in particular, when I saw it. Bottom left, half hidden behind the usual suspects with animals on the label: Peter Lehmann, Portrait Shiraz, Barossa, vintage 2023. I stopped the way you stop when you spot someone on the street you haven’t seen in years and aren’t quite sure whether to say hello.

I said hello. The bottle was in my basket before I had time to think about it.

In the old days, I drank this wine almost exclusively in one place: the Fifty Fifty Bar in Sachsenhausen. Anyone who was there knows what I’m talking about. Anyone who wasn’t missed a corner of Frankfurt where you stood at the bar, talking far too loudly about far too important things, and at some point noticed that another glass of Shiraz had appeared in front of you. The Fifty Fifty Bar is gone. The memories aren’t. And apparently neither is the wine.

The thing about memory wines is complicated. You’re not just drinking what’s in the glass — you’re drinking the evening, the people, your younger self, who still believed that midnight meant the night was only half over. So I was skeptical when I opened the bottle at home. Skeptical of myself. I was afraid the wine had only ever been good in my memory.

It wasn’t only good in my memory.

Peter Lehmann, the story goes, once said: „When God created Shiraz, he had the Barossa Valley in mind.“ That’s exactly the kind of thing every winemaker would like to say about their own region. With this wine, you believe him anyway. The Portrait is something like the flagship of the house, and it carries itself accordingly. On the nose: ripe plums, dark chocolate, and a hint of oak that doesn’t show off — it simply exists. The wine spent about a year in small barrels of French and American oak, and you can tell, but it doesn’t impose itself. The wood is there like a good waiter: present, not intrusive.

On the palate it’s opulent, fruity, with a spice that can fairly be called seductive without sliding into brochure language. Velvety and warm without becoming heavy. You might think that much fruit and warmth would eventually tip into something jammy. It doesn’t. The finish is long and surprisingly elegant for a wine that arrived with such self-assurance. An Australian with manners, so to speak.

And here I pause. Because the reason this wine was poured in a bar back then wasn’t a romantic one. It was simply outstanding value for money. The owner could serve it with a clear conscience, guests paid a fair price per glass and got a wine that justified it. That’s no secret — it’s just how hospitality is supposed to work. Quality and price go hand in hand, and nobody feels cheated.

A few weeks ago I sat in another Sachsenhausen wine bar, not far from the old spot. The prices on the menu for a 0.2 litre glass made me look twice, because I thought I’d read the wrong column and landed on the bottle prices. I hadn’t. And what turned up in the glass had little to do with the confidence of the menu. I’m hardly a penny-pincher when it comes to wine. But when a glass tastes more of rent than of grapes, something has gone wrong. At that point, wine isn’t being served anymore — it’s being administered.

Maybe that’s the real reason I turned sentimental standing in front of that supermarket shelf. Not just because a bar is missing. But because a certain attitude is missing — the attitude that bar had: here is a good wine, it costs what it costs, and it’s worth it. Full stop.

Anyone opening a bottle of the Portrait at home should pair it with something that can match its intensity. Marinated lamb chops off the grill, for instance, with plenty of garlic and rosemary and a crust that’s gone just a little too dark. The Fifty Fifty Bar would have approved of that. Though nobody ever grilled anything there.

The bottle is empty now. It’s still sitting on the kitchen counter next to the stove, because I can’t bring myself to take it to the glass recycling. Tomorrow I’m going back to Edeka. Bottom left.

This English version was created with the help of AI (translated from the German original) and may differ slightly from a professional human translation.