This article is taken from the June 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Find our subscription offers here.
If you have a phobia of diacritical marks, Turkish wine probably isn’t for you. I will spare sufferers the new spelling of the country which we are supposed to use for some reason but I can’t avoid mentioning grapes such as Öküzgözü, I’m afraid.
Like neighbouring Greece and Georgia, Turkey has a rich array of native grape varieties. It is thought that viticulture first developed here, or nearby, 6,000 years ago. Under Muslim Ottoman rule, Greek and Armenian Christians continued making wine until they were massacred or driven out during or after the First World War.
Under Mustafa Kemal, a keen drinker, winemaking was encouraged but on rather Soviet lines. Quality was not a priority, though I always enjoyed rustic reds such as Kavaklidere Yakut on sale in the ocakbaşı restaurants in London’s Green Lanes.
This began to change in the 1990s and during the early, hopeful Erdoğan years. The state wine company, Tekel, was privatised in 2004, and various quality family producers were founded like Paşaeli near Ízmir.
Turkish wine looked like it might be the next big thing, the new Greece, perhaps. Producers were discovering the riches lurking in their vineyards and getting to know its disparate climates, which range from the balmy Mediterranean on the Aegean to the fiercely continental, hot summers and cold winters, near Ankara in the centre, by the Black Sea and in the east towards Syria.
Turkish winemakers were travelling abroad whilst Kayra, formerly a state brand, took on a Californian winemaker called Daniel O’Donnell (nothing to do with the Irish crooner of the same name).
There was a dynamic organisation called Wines of Turkey that organised tastings in London and trips out to see the vineyards. But from about 2014 and particularly after the attempted coup of 2016, the country’s Islamist-leaning government began to clamp down hard on alcohol.
Donald Edwards, a sommelier who specialises in finding interesting wines from Eastern Europe and Asia Minor, explained to me some of the difficulties that wine producers now face from a hostile state. He’s put together an adventurous wine list for a modern (i.e., not just kebabs) Turkish restaurant in Canary Wharf called Nora.
The list shows how good the wines are “in spite of everything the Turkish government has done”. Along with high taxes on wine, wineries have to keep the equivalent of 36,000 euros in the bank in case the state wants to fine them for some infraction of the ever-changing regulations. Inspectors can turn up at any time.
Aslı Kuzu from a small family winery called Kuzubağ on the Aegean told me at a tasting in London: “We can’t market or promote our wine. It’s very hard.” This precludes appearing on Turkish language websites or social media. She was placed next to the Armenians, which could have been a recipe for tension, but everyone seemed to be getting on well.
She added that the country “has no wine culture; people prefer spirits”. Turks drink on average one litre of wine per person per year, compared with Italians, who drink around 40. Most don’t drink at all.
Turkish vineyards largely make grapes for eating rather than wine. Production at 68 million litres a year isn’t massive compared with Portugal’s 680 million or Greece’s 338 million, but vineyards still need foreigners to thrive.
Many smaller wineries have tried to copy the Italians by going down the agrotourism route with local food and accommodation, but the taxes mean that their wine is more expensive in Turkey than it is in Britain.
Kuzubağ is one of the lucky ones with a British importer. The “discovery” section of the London Wine Fair last year was full of hopeful producers looking to export.
Seray Kocaemre from Wines of Turkey told me that this promotional body, moribund since 2016, is being revived.
Turkish wine is a tough sell over here. As I mentioned before the grape varieties can be challenging with names like Boğazkere or Öküzgözü. They don’t exactly roll off the tongue like Merlot or Malbec.
But in the form of Kalecik Karası, meaning black {grape} of Kalecik in Anatolia, the country has an ace up its sleeve. It produces very pale red wines that are a bit like Pinot Noir that has gone native in the court of Suleiman the Magnificent; think exotic spices, maraschino cherries and curly shoes.
Kuzubağ makes an excellent one, or the Wine Society stocks a reliable version from Vinkara. Be warned, Kalecik Karası isn’t to be mixed up with Çal Karası, which has recently been shown to be the same as the Cretan grape variety, Liatiko.
It makes ethereal reds similar to its near namesake but in an even lighter style. Likewise, Paşaeli 6N, made from another native grape beginning with K, Karasakız, tasting of orange peel and red cherries.
As we discovered over dinner at Nora, these light reds are masters of the mezze, going brilliantly with everything from subtle fish dishes to the inevitable and delicious kebabs. Kalecik Karası is the perfect summer red: distinctive, highly drinkable and no scary umlauts.
