Dear producers, don’t compliment young wine journalists

There is a moment, in certain professional circles, when time stops being just a unit of measurement and becomes a problem. Not for those moving forward, but for those standing still. A dinner between wine producers and journalists of different ages can thus turn into an institutional crisis. A joke, a misplaced laugh. Applause directed elsewhere. And something cracks in the mind of the journalist with a few more years under their belt.

I recently saw proof of this yet again. The emotional reaction of some older colleagues to the recognition of their younger peers is often unhealthy in the Italian wine sector. When consensus shifts, when someone “new” receives attention, credit, or even just a listening ear, it is considered an insult.

Professional jealousy is not an accident. It is a structure. It manifests through small signals: selective complicity, excessive laughter. Strategic silences, sudden stiffening. Until the outburst. The scene. Lèse-majesté. “Because I am who I am.” And him? “He arrived later.” What he actually does doesn’t matter.

The public context amplifies everything. A joke can become a political act. A compliment, a declaration of allegiance. And those who feel excluded from that circle of recognition react. Not always with clarity.

The point isn’t who is right on the merits. The point is who can handle the comparison without turning it into a personal conflict. Those who can distinguish between compliments and comparisons. Between their role and their ego. Because when these distinctions vanish, every word addressed to others is experienced as an attack. Every round of applause becomes a subtraction.

Then there is a broader theme that spans many sectors: the relationship between those who arrived first and those who are arriving now. It’s not a pure matter of age. It’s a matter of posture. There are seasoned professionals who remain curious, updated, and competitive. Who continue to travel and know where the world is heading. And there are others who view every new voice as a threat. Trapped in a bubble of personal certainties that, evidently, aren’t so certain after all.

The problem arises when the past becomes a refuge. When experience stops being an asset and becomes a shield. When recognition is demanded not for what one does today, but for what they presumably were and what the world should continue to recognize and celebrate. The world, however, doesn’t work like that. Not anymore.

Resentment is slow. It accumulates. It doesn’t explode suddenly: it smolders. It feeds on minor episodes, perceptions, and implicit comparisons. Then, it takes very little. A phrase. A laugh. A gesture. A seat assigned at the wrong table. And everything comes out, often disproportionately to the triggering event.

This is where the difference between professional solidity and fragility is measured. Not in technical competence, but in managing one’s positioning relative to others. In the wine sector, a producer’s compliment to a young critic and journalist is unacceptable in the presence of their more “seasoned” colleagues.

The wrinkles in this story aren’t about age. They are symbolic. They are the sign of passing time, of changing positions, of shifting hierarchies. Accepting them means accepting that one’s role is not immutable. Rejecting them means going to war with oneself and with everything the new represents.

Making peace with your wrinkles means staying in the game—if that is the desire—without turning it into a personal battle. Accepting that someone else can shine without it overshadowing your own path. Because, in the end, the problem isn’t the talent of others. It’s the way you look at yourself in the mirror, eventually spewing bitterness and frustration onto others. “Because I am who I am.” And him? “He arrived later.” What he actually does doesn’t matter.