Now, about this name “Plavinci.” At first glance, it sounds like a threat. In Serbian, “plaviti” means “to flood,” so Plavinci could be translated as “That Place the Danube Will Definitely Destroy.” Not exactly the branding you want when you’re trying to sell wine.

But language, like wine, gets tricky when you let it breathe. *Plavo* also means “blue.” And *plaviti”—with a different accent—means “to make something blue.” Confused? Welcome to Serbian. So, Plavinci could also mean “The Blue Place.” Which, admittedly, sounds much more Instagram-friendly.

The real story is better. Long ago, these slopes were covered in vineyards, and farmers sprayed them with copper sulfate—known locally as “blue stone.” In the morning sun, from the river below, the whole hillside shimmered indigo. Sailors, enchanted, started jotting in their logbooks: “Passed by Plavinci at dawn. Looks like someone painted the hill.” Romantic, isn’t it? In English, we could almost get away with calling it *Indigo Hills.*

Names matter. They’re little stories in disguise. Take our red wine Indigo. Simple enough—its deep color, especially when you’re scrubbing glasses, looks like the ink scribes once used with feather pens. But it’s also a quiet nod to the place itself.

Then there’s Ćilibar (say it with me: Chille-bar), which means “amber.” Logically, you’d expect an orange wine. But logic and winemaking don’t always share a vineyard. My very first mini-harvest—about 80 kilos of Panonia grapes—was done barefoot, old-school style. Whole clusters, week-long maceration, juice strained into a carboy. The result? A cloudy, orange-tinted, funky nectar that tasted like nothing anyone around here had ever encountered.

When I proudly offered it to people, most wouldn’t even sip it. “It’s spoiled!” they cried. (Meanwhile, natural-wine hipsters would’ve sold a kidney to get their hands on it.)

The next year, when we finally had a proper harvest, I chickened out and made it as a classic white. But the name Ćilibar stuck. Today, we give it a modest three-day maceration. It flirts with being orange, but not enough to scare off the cautious. Still, one day I hope to return to that rebellious first bottle—the one that popped corks and freaked everyone out.

Our orange Selena (six days on the skins) takes its name from the Greek goddess of the Moon. The grapes come from a friend’s biodynamic vineyard, where everything follows the lunar calendar. We wanted a name that hinted at that celestial rhythm without sticking “biodynamic” on the label and scaring people into Googling Rudolf Steiner.

Then there’s our rosé Ramonda. On the label, you’ll see the flower Ramonda nathalie, discovered in 1864 on Dry Mountain by the Serbian king’s physician. Naturally, he named it after Queen Natalia—though rumor has it the queen couldn’t stand him, mostly because he was King Milan’s wingman in his favorite hobby: chasing other women. (Royal scandals and botany, all in one.)

The Ramonda is also called the Phoenix Flower. It can look dead for months, then miraculously revive with a splash of water. We like to think of our rosé the same way: one glass on a blazing summer day, and suddenly you’re alive again.

Our pét-nat Endora has a name as magical as the bubbles inside. In ancient Greek, Endora means “enchantress.” In Hebrew, it means “fountain.” So naturally, our label shows two enchantresses dancing around a fountain of wine. Because once you taste it, you’ll be enchanted too—and possibly dancing yourself.

And finally, our pét-nat Good Boy Bruno. I won’t spoil the mystery. Let’s just say it’s a cheeky wordplay between French and English. You’ll figure it out. Or drink enough of it to stop caring.