The Skin Contact Situation

How orange wine became the personality trait of every new restaurant in town.

At some point in the last two years, every new restaurant in Ottawa decided it needed at least three things: hand-thrown ceramic plates, a playlist with at least one Khruangbin track, and a by-the-glass orange wine.

Not necessarily good orange wine. Not well-paired, or explained, or even chilled properly. Just… orange. A glass of something copper-hued and cloudy, served like a wink across the table. As if to say: we’re not like other restaurants.

It wasn’t always this way. Skin-contact wines used to be an actual statement—offbeat, idiosyncratic, full of funk and tannin and surprise. Now they’re a shorthand. A brand move. The Aperol Spritz of the tasting room.

To be clear: orange wine isn’t the problem. The problem is how it's being used—as a lazy signal of cool, a vibe accessory. Something poured not because it pairs, but because it plays well on Instagram.

And maybe the worst part? Most of it isn’t even that good. There are brilliant, wild, cellar-worthy skin-contact wines out there—bold and herbal, textural and strange. But what we get by the glass at most of these places tastes like someone left a chardonnay out in the sun and decided that was a style.

This isn't a call for orange wine to disappear. It's a call for it to mean something again. Not every glass needs to be a trend. Sometimes, it just needs to be a choice.