Reversing the starting point of pairing is not a provocation. It is, rather, a different way of listening to wine. When it comes to food-and-wine pairing, the process is well known: you start with the dish, with the main ingredients, build a recipe or a menu following a clear direction, and only at the end choose the wine. A wine designed to accompany, support, or sometimes contrast with the food, becoming the natural conclusion to the culinary offering.

It is the classic model, the one we are used to. And it is not even a modern concept. As early as the Middle Ages, the relationship between food and wine was experienced as a natural, everyday, almost instinctive pairing.

In the Carmina Burana it says: “When we are at the tavern, we do not think about death, but about wine and food, which go well together.”

If this balance has worked for centuries by starting with the dish, what happens when you decide to turn the order of things upside down? When the wine takes center stage and the food enters only afterward, as a natural consequence? If classic pairing starts with the dish and leads to the wine, reverse pairing changes the direction: it is the wine that sets the pace, and the food becomes the gastronomic response. This is not a recent invention, but a format that has grown alongside the culture of tastings and experiential menus. In Italy, it has been described as a “reverse menu” since at least 2014.

Reverse pairing comes precisely from this shift in perspective. Not as a technical exercise, but as an act of listening. You open a bottle without already having a recipe in mind. You taste it, observe it, and try to understand its character, tension, and direction. Only afterward do you begin to imagine what might go alongside it, without forcing it or creating overlap.

In this approach, the dish is no longer the starting point, but the end point. It is built around the sensations that the wine evokes, following what it suggests and also what it does not ask for. It is a more instinctive way of cooking, less planned, that requires time, attention, and a willingness to listen.

Wine thus ceases to be a complement and becomes the origin of the story. The food comes in as an act of balance, not of protagonism.

Reverse pairing is fascinating precisely because it forces you to slow down and make room for sensory experience. This approach is not confined to theory or personal experimentation. For years, in some contemporary kitchens, especially in fine dining, wine has entered the creative process long before the dish. Vertical tastings, menus built around a bottle, experiences in which the sommelier works side by side with the chef. Reverse pairing thus becomes a narrative tool, a way to tell the story of wine not as an accompaniment, but as the origin of the gastronomic gesture.

The first time I tried to apply this approach, I didn’t do it with the idea of overturning a rule. I opened a bottle of Ruchè di Castagnole Monferrato without having a clear idea of what I would cook. I tasted it slowly: an aromatic but dry wine, marked by notes of rose, violet, spices, and an unexpected tension. It didn’t call for a complex dish, nor for a structure that imitated it. It called for balance.

Only then did I start thinking about what could accompany it, something that would respect its aroma without masking its character. I settled on a berry risotto, driven more by acidity than sweetness, simple and restrained. A dish capable of harmonizing with the floral, spicy notes of the Ruchè, creating a natural pairing, without forcing it.

At that moment, the meaning of reverse pairing became clear: not finding the right wine for a dish, but allowing a dish to be created by listening to the wine.

And perhaps this is exactly what reverse pairing reminds us: that at the table, not everything has to be decided in advance. Because, as Michel de Montaigne suggested, pleasure lies not so much in the destination as in the journey we choose to take.