White Wine Macerated on the Skins: the Friulians

The category of skin-contact white wines isn’t necessarily my favourite—quite the opposite. But having come across some genuinely worthwhile examples, it’s worth digging into it.

What Skin-Contact White Wines Are

Skin-contact whites are, essentially, white wines vinified “like a red”: instead of separating the juice from the skins right away, the must is left in contact with the solid parts of the grape (skins and, at times, also seeds or even stems) for a certain period. It’s precisely this prolonged contact that changes everything: the wine gains more substance, more intensity, and above all a profile that no longer resembles the “classic white” made only from fermented juice.

In practical terms, skin maceration in whites works like a controlled extraction: grapes are destemmed to avoid transmitting excessive bitterness, gently crushed, and then time (and often temperature) is allowed to work on the mix of must and skins. This is where the most important variable comes in: how long it lasts. Some macerations last just a few hours; others stretch for weeks or months, producing very different results. In between, the goal is always the same: to extract from the skins aromatic substances and structure, including tannins (a “strange” thing for a white), which give the sip a more tactile, drier grip.

When maceration is long and the wine takes on an amber/copper colour, we speak of orange wine, precisely because the must has “taken on colour” from staying on the skins. And with the colour comes a character that’s often more assertive: more intense aromas, a more structured feel, and a finish that can recall—by grip and dryness—a light red. It isn’t even a modern invention: the technique has ancient roots (it originated in Georgia in amphorae/qvevri) and was later rediscovered and championed across the wine world.

The Technical Side of Skin-Contact Whites

Technically, a skin-contact white is born when must and solid parts remain together after crushing, instead of being separated immediately as in traditional white winemaking. In that window, the most important thing happens: the skins “swell”, membranes give way, and compounds such as polyphenols, aromatic precursors and tannins migrate into the liquid by diffusion. It’s not only the colour that changes: it’s a method that shapes the wine’s substance and character.

Then come the variables: duration, temperature, and—if fermentation happens on the skins—the presence of alcohol, which facilitates extraction. The producer decides how much structure to give the wine and how much risk to take in terms of harshness: more contact = more extraction, but also a higher risk of bitter or overly tannic notes if poorly managed.

Finally, the cellar side that is often underestimated: vessel choice and cap management. In reds we talk about the cap and techniques like pump-overs/pigeage; in skin-contact whites the logic is similar (keeping the skins in contact and under control), but with a different goal: extracting without losing finesse. The container also steers style: stainless steel for more cleanliness; amphora/clay for a micro-porosity that can work on texture and evolution. And watch the stems: they can be included, but they must be handled carefully because they can bring green tones, tannin and imbalance if the material isn’t perfect.

Where Skin-Contact Whites Are Made

Today skin-contact whites are made more or less everywhere—and readers of this blog know it: I lament it. This fashion has by now become canon, so many wineries feel they must make “an orange”. Still, this renaissance of macerated whites certainly had an epicentre that is very dear to me: the Collio.

Here Gravner first of all, then followed by other very serious deans of the colour orange such as Radikon, Princic and Podversic, brought back into fashion a way of vinifying white grapes that has had—and still has—enormous success. On the other side of the border, in Slovenia, Klinec (and I miss the restaurant they had opened) has kept this flag flying. And also further down towards Trieste, still along the Italian–Slovenian ridge, you come across wineries making high-quality macerated whites.

Curiously, Slovenia appears to be the true epicentre of this style: even towards Maribor, a stone’s throw from the Austrian border, orange dominates. Since this vinification is sui generis compared to the forms we’re used to, it naturally doesn’t respect national borders—and so even in Styria, homeland of Austrian Sauvignon Blanc, producers such as Andreas Tscheppe have devoted themselves to it. Orange wines therefore re-emerge in Central Europe, with their epicentre in a small, stubborn state like Slovenia—a perfect geographic transposition of this trend.

Why I Don’t Love Skin-Contact Whites

I don’t love skin-contact whites—least of all when they’re very orange. The first reason is that I don’t love fashions, which I almost always find empty and boring. These wines are now an integral part—and even the raison d’être—of many indie wine shops, and they seem to serve more to justify a business model than to offer real oenological value.

And yet. Yet we’ve just named them: Gravner, Klinec, producers who put truly high-level wines on the market do exist—absolutely. And still, I don’t fall in love with these wines.

The person who explained my scepticism better than I could—towards this winemaking approach, which does have very ancient roots and its own tradition—is Marco Sara, who at the time of my visit said:

“Maceration exalts the skin, which in turn exalts the grape variety. But the variety is only part of the wine: it’s the ‘primary school’ of wine. Then there’s middle school and high school, and those are given by the territory. Exalting the variety is like exalting an elementary-school diploma.”

My scepticism lies here: an orange Ribolla is a “super charged” Ribolla, but for that anonymous grape variety that Ribolla is, what matters isn’t the varietal traits, but how it reflects the Collio. And it does so brilliantly—just taste a Ribolla not from the Collio to understand that it belongs in the Collio, that it is the perfect vehicle to represent that terroir, and that in return the terroir gives character to an otherwise bland varietal. Great bottles are born from the interaction between variety and terroir, not from grapes alone—otherwise a Chardonnay could be equally good in Burgundy and in Moldova. Putting the emphasis on skins and therefore on the grapes reduces their expression of a territory, and that seems rather reductive to me. This tension between varietal expression and terroir readability is something I explore more directly when discussing Ribolla Gialla and its price, a variety that outside the Collio or the Brda is almost always flat and dull.

Finally, a purely personal note: I don’t love the “empty” astringency of many macerated whites. Lots of tannin, little body. They strike me as wines with great structure, but lacking flesh, lacking volume. This is a matter of taste—but taste with a theoretical basis.

Vitovska Kamen vs Jelka Picech

To close the article, it’s worth placing these two macerated whites side by side. Both Friulian, both born from skin contact, but profoundly different in idea, ambition and behaviour over time. The first was gifted to me and I wasn’t expecting much. The second, instead, I bought because I hold the estate that produces it in very high regard.

Zidarich’s Vitovska Kamen 2019 remains an essential orange, almost ascetic. Vinified in vats of Karst stone, fermented with indigenous yeasts and macerated for 18 days. Vitovska gives little, and here it is asked to give just as much: measured aromas, oxidised apple, stewed apricot, dried white flowers, a slightly waxy sensation. The acidity is present but held back; salinity emerges on the finish together with fine, discreet tannins. It is coherent, clean, legible. It works better at the table than on its own, and remains “acceptable but good for the orange category”, without ever truly igniting anything.

Jelka Bianco by Roberto Picech, on the other hand, plays in a different register—and it’s also the one I find more attractive between the two. It is a blend of Ribolla Gialla, Friulano and Malvasia, from old vines in the Collio of Pradis in Cormons, vinified with 14–16 days of skin contact for the Friulano in a large cask, while Ribolla and Malvasia ferment and age in tonneau. After blending, the wine spends almost three years in concrete and is released no earlier than five years after harvest. On paper, it’s an ambitious project.

The 2017 vintage is the one that convinced me most: a subtle wine, driven by nuance more than concentration. A restrained yet elegant nose, with well-integrated coconut and vanilla, bay leaf, meadow grass, lemon custard. On the palate it is light, taut, with a structure that holds everything together without ever weighing it down. Honey, dried fig and apricot jam appear in filigree; the finish is saline and calls for another sip. A wine of confident elegance, easy to drink but not easy to define—excellent with a legume soup.

The 2019 vintage, instead, shows the other side of the coin. The nose is more closed, with notes of autumn leaves, vanilla, mandarin peel and dried fruit. On the palate the wine seems to hollow out aromatically, while maintaining a remarkable creamy consistency. The finish is savoury, with a few fruity and hazelnut hints, but overall it remains correct without leaving a mark. It does its job at the table, cleanses the palate, but doesn’t go much beyond that.

Side by side, Kamen and Jelka show well why macerated whites are a category with extremely high variance. It’s easy to move from acceptable to excellent—sometimes even within the same label, from one vintage to the next. Jelka, more than Vitovska, shows this risk: when the bottle is right, it’s worth it; when it isn’t, it remains dignified but not memorable. It’s a perfect category for those who like to take risks, for those who aren’t discouraged by a “so-so” bottle. In both cases, however, in the less successful bottles there is a feeling of missing body—structure without weave—that irritates me. Still, between the two bottles, Jelka is the one that has managed better—at least once—to free itself from these traits.