A first pass through Hajósi Pincefalu - the cellar village just outside of the village of Hajós, deeply reflective of its Swabian roots - feels almost like an abandoned movie set than a living, breathing place. The rows of thatched-roof houses that sit above the linked cellar system and just below a stretch of vineyards, seemingly without property lines or borders, are largely unoccupied, and from the open doors of the few occupied properties, quiet, inquisitive eyes track our arrival as we drive by the abandon, Soviet-era tractors that line our approach. It's an unavoidable reminder of the great blow dealt to these villages by two world wars, and later by communist rule. At the end of a long path, just before the nature preserve buzzing with early summer insects, we meet Petra and Balázs Sziegl.
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We gather at the edge of their terraced vineyard that sits above their house. A pop and fizz as Petra pours generously from an unmarked bottle of Pet Nat; the shadows of scattered summer clouds passing over the Herreberg vineyard below, threatening impending rain; the perfume from the late spring bloom, carried in waves with a gentle breeze; the hum of bees in the garden, cautiously observing the Mangalica salumi laid out in front of us; to call this a sensory overload would be an understatement. This is not a typical experience in Hajós, at least not anymore. Petra and Balázs took a real risk in setting up their winery here - there's no infrastructure, no schools, none of the resources that a young family needs. But the sandy soils of these old vineyards, buffered by surrounding forests and once classified as 'grand cru' by the top families in the region, proved too alluring for Balázs, a viticulturist focused on clonal research and preservation of old vines, to resist. Petra was enamored with the concentration of fruit and varietal character from these low-yielding vines, and despite the challenges of working in somewhat isolation in their new winery, couldn't deny that the quality of the wines they were producing, even in their early vintages, was unlike what she had worked with previously.
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Petra and Balázs' focus, as is so often the case in Hungary, was initially primarily fixed on Kadarka. But Kékfrankos (Blaufrankisch to their Austrian neighbors) from the low-lying, frost-prone Diófás vineyard was a revelation, both to them when they discovered the tension and balance it was capable of achieving, and to us when we first tasted it. The conditions in the vineyard allow these grapes to ripen slowly, building racy acidity without sacrificing ripeness. On the palate, the flavors seem to trace the timeline of our afternoon here: a walk under the ripe cherry tree, the flowers singing in the sunshine as we get ready to dig into a paprika and clove spiked meal set down in front of us. If wine can transport us - and I believe it can - I'll drink this one as long as I can, revisiting this moment time and time again.
