Nectar Worth More Than Gold: Egon Müller’s 2018 TBA Is the Closest You’ll Get to Drinking Immortality

First Sip of Mythic Mischief

Imagine your taste buds lounging on Mount Olympus, half–seduced, half–terrified, while Dionysus himself leans over and whispers, “You think you know Riesling? Watch this.” That’s the vibe in a thimble of Egon Müller’s 2018 Scharzhofberger Trockenbeerenauslese. Only a few hundred half-bottles exist. Price? About the cost of a well-used Porsche. Regret? Only if you don’t drink it.

A Liquid Halo in the Glass

Tilt the glass and you’ll swear you’re looking at molten topaz shot through with flecks of 24-karat leaf. Viscous sheets crawl down the bowl—slow, sensual, like honey absentmindedly dripped from a silver spoon. Pop your nose in and you’re blindsided by an aromatic stampede: satsuma marmalade, saffron, quince jam, yuzu kosho, bruised chamomile, and a flash of struck flint to remind you the Mosel still keeps its cool under all that 2018 sun.

Palate: The Silk-Rope Roller-Coaster

First hit: electric-lime acidity snaps your senses to attention—hello, lightning. Then the sugar payload lands, thick as nectar yet feather-light, pirouetting between apricot confit, candied Buddha’s hand, and salted caramel. Mid-way, a stealthy note of wild mint surfaces, cooling everything down like a breeze off the Saar. The finish? Infinite. Ten minutes later you’ll still taste bergamot peel and smoky slate, as though the vineyard tattooed its GPS coordinates on your tongue. Texture is pure cashmere: no cloy, no drag, just seamless glide. This is sweetness wearing an Armani cut.

Backstage with the Sorcerer

Egon Müller IV is Riesling’s answer to Scorsese—every release gets a standing ovation, and the crowd still begs for an encore. Scharzhofberg itself is a steep, sun-trapping amphitheater of Devonian slate, meaning the grapes ripen like tan-hunting gods yet keep razor acidity. In the scorched, low-yield 2018 vintage, a freakish run of botrytis shriveled berries to raisin-like intensity; Müller’s team hand-picked them berry by berry. Yield per vine? Think thimble, not bucket. Fermentations crawl at glacial pace in ancient fuder casks until Müller decides the wine has “told its story.” He rarely talks numbers, but rumor pins residual sugar above 350 g/L and alcohol around 6%. Translation: ethereal sugar rush, toddler-proof booze.

Serving Shenanigans

Chill it to 46 °F (8 °C), then let the glass warm while you ogle it. A gentle, hour-long decant can coax out wilder florals if impatience isn’t your brand of hedonism. Pairings? Blue cheese that funk-slaps back, foie gras torchon with apricot glaze, or—my personal flex—drizzle a half-ounce over vanilla bean gelato and watch dinner guests ascend to higher consciousness. Skip dessert wine glasses; use small-bowled white-wine stems so aromas can riot properly.

Ledger of Lust: Why Collectors Are Losing Sleep

• Critic adoration: Triple-digit scores rain down like ambrosia. Some scribes hardly bother tasting; they just write “100” and re-cork.
• Production tighter than Fort Knox: Fewer than 200 liters made. You could pour the entire vintage into a kiddie pool—though the gods would smite you.
• Market trajectory: Prices have doubled at auction since release, and provenance seals break faster than New Year’s resolutions. This isn’t a wine; it’s a silk-lined IOU from Dionysus promising future ecstasy.
• Cellar life: Fifty years easy. Today it’s neon-fruit euphoria; by 2050 expect truffle honey, petrol, and the sort of umami that makes chefs weep.

The Final Word—Drink It or Die Boring

Pass on this bottle and you’ll forever wonder what Olympus tastes like. Drink it, and you may never look at ordinary dessert wines without sighing, “Cute, but where’s the lightning bolt?” Your call, mortal.