It's just a glass. Relax."
If you've spent any time around wine, you've probably heard that sentence.
Every time someone reaches for a stemmed glass, someone else eventually shrugs and says, "Why does it matter? Wine should be approachable."
They're right.
Wine should be approachable.
But approachable doesn't have to mean stripped of its ritual.
Perhaps, this debate isn't really about a wine glass at all. Perhaps it's about how we make more room at the table without forgetting why we built the table in the first place.
I understand why stemless glasses became popular. They're practical. They fit in the dishwasher. They feel less formal, less precious, and perhaps a little less intimidating. I've happily drunk wine from them too.
But somewhere along the way, I wonder if we started confusing accessibility with simplification.
The stem wasn't invented because someone wanted to feel superior. It was practical.
It kept warm hands away from wines that deserved to stay cool. It kept fingerprints off the bowl so colour could be appreciated. It made swirling easier, allowing aromas to gather where your nose could actually find them.
I don't drink wine simply because I want a drink. I want my glass to ask something of me. To notice the craftsmanship. The season. The people across the table. And, occasionally, myself.
The stem represents presence to me. It reminds me to slow down. It doesn't have to mean that for everyone. But that's what it has come to mean for me.
We're trying—and rightly so—to make wine less intimidating. It's a conversation I'm genuinely grateful we're having.
For decades, too many people confused expertise with exclusivity. Knowledge became something to guard and weaponise instead of something to share.
No one should ever feel embarrassed because they don't know what carbonic maceration is. No one should apologise for mispronouncing Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
That's not what I call expertise. That's just superiority wearing a name tag.
The more I learn about wine, the more curious I become. I'd much rather make someone curious enough to order another glass than intimidated enough to order a beer.
I'm not handing you flavour wheels. I want you to tell me what a wine reminds you of? What meal are you sharing? Who are you drinking with?
Wine belongs to everyone.
I'm not asking you to trade your stemless glass for a stemmed one.
I'm only asking that we leave room for both. That we don't mistake ritual for snobbery simply because it looks different from our own.
I won't roll my eyes if you hand me a paper cup. I'd just ask that you don't roll yours when I instinctively reach for a stem—or swirl it for a second longer than necessary.
Wine belongs to both of us. We just happen to want different glassware.
The way I see it - and in the defence of the stem - I know that we wouldn't ask a violinist to stop tuning because silence makes the audience uncomfortable.
We wouldn't serve a seven-course French dinner on paper plates simply because fine dining intimidates some people.
The answer of wine intimidation isn't to remove all the rituals surrounding it, but to explain it.
To invite people into it.
The stem, to me, is an invitation to notice the beauty and art already in the glass
So thank you for coming to my Stem talk.
My parents really did want me to be a lawyer.
Jokes on all of us.
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