About Wine Serving Temperatures

Wine, like most of the finer things in life, has always been at the mercy of its surroundings. Centuries ago, people drank it at whatever temperature the seasons allowed. A January Bordeaux might have been colder than the grave, a July one warm as an old preacher’s sigh, and no one complained because no one knew better, or at least they pretended not to. Thermometers hadn’t yet achieved celebrity status, and a man was lucky if his wine wasn’t half vinegar and full of beetles. Later, when the Victorians arrived, with their side-whiskers and love of codifying things, they declared rules. Red wine was to be drunk at “room temperature”—by which they meant drafty English parlors, not the climate-controlled terrariums we live in now. Champagne was buried in ice, partly because bubbles taste sprightly when cool, and partly because nobody wanted to hear a cork explode across the dining room like a dueling pistol. And thus were born traditions that, like slightly tipsy aunts, are still with us long after the music has stopped.

But temperature, unlike etiquette, is not arbitrary. It is chemistry in motion. Wine is a circus of molecules: acids balancing on high wires, esters tumbling, alcohols juggling. Change the temperature and the entire act changes tone. Too warm, and alcohol lurches about like an uncle who has cornered you at a wedding to tell you his views on politics. Too cold, and the aromas are locked away like misers clutching coins, leaving you to drink nothing but the idea of coldness. A red left in the sun becomes shrill, hot, and spirituous; a white pulled straight from the freezer is a blank stare in a glass. Somewhere in between lies the sweet spot, the place where the molecules loosen their collars and start telling jokes, where the wine’s character becomes visible, audible, even a little flirtatious.

In practice, this means common sense dressed up as wisdom. A red should not sweat like a horse, nor should it shiver like a tourist in February Paris. A white should be cool enough to refresh but warm enough to speak. Sparkling wines prefer to be kept frosty, because bubbles, like actors, need discipline. Dessert wines are more forgiving but still benefit from a touch of restraint. It is not witchcraft, though sommeliers sometimes behave as if it were; it is simply a matter of using the fridge and the table with the timing of a stagehand. Twenty minutes here, half an hour there, and suddenly the wine has found its voice.

The myths persist, of course. Red wines are supposedly never to be chilled. Whites are supposedly meant to be served from the North Pole. Champagne, if some guides are to be believed, ought to be subdued by frost until it gives up all resistance. And professionals are said to use instinct, as though instinct were anything but experience wearing a false nose. None of this is true. What is true is that wine responds to temperature like a cat to sunlight: it stretches, purrs, and reveals itself when conditions are just right, and sulks when they are not.

To understand this is to approach wine not as a set of commandments but as a conversation partner. One need not fuss endlessly with thermometers, though they are useful allies; one need only remember that warmth and chill are levers, and that each pull changes what the glass has to say. A bottle of Pinot Noir taken slightly cool can sing. A Sauvignon Blanc allowed to warm a little can show generosity. The point is not to obey rules but to coax pleasure, which is why we drink wine in the first place.

So let the textbooks drone about degrees Celsius, and let the etiquette guides mutter about tradition. You, reader, need only taste, observe, and adjust, and then taste again. This is the true education, and a far merrier one. In the end, the temperature of wine is nothing less than the temperature of delight itself, and both are best when handled with curiosity, wit, and a willingness to experiment.