Slovakia
Slovakia sits between Austria, Hungary, and the Czech Republic — surrounded by some of the most talked-about wine regions in Central Europe. And yet it almost never comes up in the conversation.
The westernmost edge of Slovakia is where the Little Carpathians begin — a narrow ridge of granite and crystalline rock running north from Bratislava, pressing up against the Austrian border. This is the same geological formation that disappears underground on the Austrian side and re-emerges as the Leithagebirge in Burgenland. Across the border: some of the most talked-about Blaufränkisch in the world. On this side: the same soils, the same grape, the same exposure — and almost no one watching. The vineyards of Svätý Jur sit just ten kilometres from the centre of Bratislava, in the foothills of those hills, on south-facing slopes of granite bedrock with sandy, mineral-rich topsoil. The combination produces wines with a tension and precision that the richer clay soils of the plains simply can't replicate.
Slovakia has been making wine for over two thousand years. The Romans planted vines here. The medieval town of Svätý Jur — its name means Saint George — was granted royal wine-town privileges in the 13th century, and its cellars date to the 17th. Through the Habsburg empire and the Austro-Hungarian wine lands, through two world wars and four decades of centralised production under communism, the vineyards survived. What communism did was flatten ambition: cooperatives replaced family estates, quantity replaced quality, and the wines stopped travelling. When the wall came down, Slovakia had the land, the geology, and the old vines — but no reputation to speak of.
That is changing. A generation of winemakers who trained in Austria, worked harvests across Europe, and came home with a different set of questions is quietly building something. Precise, mineral wines from granite soils. Skin-contact whites that carry the weight of the terroir without heaviness. Reds built on carbonic energy rather than extraction. The kind of wines that make you reach for the bottle before you've finished thinking about why.
Slovakia is the kind of place serious wine people find before everyone else does. That window is closing.
Naboso
Barefoot on granite. Svätý Jur's finest.
Naboso means barefoot in Slovak. Close to the ground, nothing between you and the earth. It's not just a name — it's a position.
Nadja Peltzer grew up in Germany, discovered wine while working at a winery in Austria, and then landed in one of Copenhagen's best natural wine bars, where she spent years building a palate and a point of view. It was there that she met Andrej Miklušičák — a Slovak winemaker who had been quietly making wine for over a decade, mostly unknown outside his own country. They fell in love with each other and with the idea of doing it together in his hometown of Svätý Jur, a medieval wine village ten kilometres from Bratislava, in the foothills of the Little Carpathians.
Five hectares on granite bedrock and sandy topsoil, south-facing, all organic. They do everything themselves — tending the vines through the year, harvesting at the right moment, foot-crushing the grapes, watching the fermentation, bottling, labelling, and waxing every single bottle. Andrej's palate is extraordinary. Nadja handles sales, travels to markets, and makes ceramics under her brand earthea — vessels shaped from the same instinct that drives the wine.
The cellar is a 17th-century building on the main street of Svätý Jur. Gravity transfers. Spontaneous fermentation. Neutral oak and acacia barrels. No filtration. The wines don't leave until they're ready — which usually means years, not months. The label series uses artwork by Dorthe Kalhøj of Galleri Kalhøj, Copenhagen: a different face on every bottle, every vintage. Collector's items, and the reason people who don't know the wine still pick it up.
One more team member: Ryba, the vineyard terrier. Self-appointed Security Manager, full-time presence, no plans to retire.
Their philosophy hasn't changed since the beginning. Natural wine, yes — but stable, without faults, drinkable and enjoyable. If they don't love it, it won't leave the cellar. That standard is why people wait for the allocation.
Naboso means barefoot in Slovak. Close to the ground, nothing between you and the earth. It's not just a name — it's a position.
Nadja Peltzer grew up in Germany, discovered wine while working at a winery in Austria, and then landed in one of Copenhagen's best natural wine bars, where she spent years building a palate and a point of view. It was there that she met Andrej Miklušičák — a Slovak winemaker who had been quietly making wine for over a decade, mostly unknown outside his own country. They fell in love with each other and with the idea of doing it together in his hometown of Svätý Jur, a medieval wine village ten kilometres from Bratislava, in the foothills of the Little Carpathians.
Five hectares on granite bedrock and sandy topsoil, south-facing, all organic. They do everything themselves — tending the vines through the year, harvesting at the right moment, foot-crushing the grapes, watching the fermentation, bottling, labelling, and waxing every single bottle. Andrej's palate is extraordinary. Nadja handles sales, travels to markets, and makes ceramics under her brand earthea — vessels shaped from the same instinct that drives the wine.
The cellar is a 17th-century building on the main street of Svätý Jur. Gravity transfers. Spontaneous fermentation. Neutral oak and acacia barrels. No filtration. The wines don't leave until they're ready — which usually means years, not months. The label series uses artwork by Dorthe Kalhøj of Galleri Kalhøj, Copenhagen: a different face on every bottle, every vintage. Collector's items, and the reason people who don't know the wine still pick it up.
One more team member: Ryba, the vineyard terrier. Self-appointed Security Manager, full-time presence, no plans to retire.
Their philosophy hasn't changed since the beginning. Natural wine, yes — but stable, without faults, drinkable and enjoyable. If they don't love it, it won't leave the cellar. That standard is why people wait for the allocation.
