The grapes are hand-harvested and destemmed. The clusters of fruit are fermented in kvevri with skins on for an extended maceration of 5 months; the wine is then racked to stainless for another 5 months before bottling. 

This wine’s name is a play on words: at first glance, it appears to be a misspelling of its grape, the local variety Tsolikouri; Ramaz is said to have removed the “T” as the wine bucks local tradition by incorporating skin contact. It’s also an homage to Ramaz’s late friend and mentor, Soliko Tsaishvili, who first taught him the skin contact method of winemaking. In Georgian, “Solikouri” reads as “From Soliko.” 

Ramaz Nikoladze

Ramaz Nikoladze comes from a lineage of growers in Imereti, Western Georgia, but what he does today feels like a fresh reawakening rather than mere preservation. He revived a cellar and vineyard that once belonged to his great-grandfather in Nakhshirgele, and since 2007 has been quietly pushing the boundaries of what natural, qvevri-driven winemaking can mean in his region. 

The vineyards are modest in size — around 1.5 hectares — planted with very old vines (some are decades old) of indigenous white varietals like Tsitska and Tsolikouri. The soils are clay-based, the terrain humid and shaded in parts, and Ramaz works organically, sometimes biodynamically. Everything in the vineyard is done by hand. No herbicides or chemicals that mask flavor. 

In the cellar, tradition and experimentation meet. Grapes are harvested by hand, sometimes foot-pressed or gently pressed, always with spontaneous fermentation. Some wines see skin contact, others are pressed without maceration, and for those that he macerates, it's typically long (4-6 months) in qvevris buried in the earth. There’s no added sulfur, no fining, no filtration. The wines carry the weight of the vineyard and the clarity of Ramaz’s intention. 

What makes Ramaz special is how he works at the edge of what people expect from Imereti. Traditionally the region’s whites are lighter, less skin contact, more transparency. Ramaz borrows from broader Georgian tradition (especially from places like Kakheti) when he wants to, but always brings it back to his local soil, local vines. His wines feel like they belong to a place, not an idea. They are honest, textured, sometimes tense, often beautiful in their restraint.