A Wine Enthusiast Does Fredericksburg Sober

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They say no man crosses the same river twice. In this story, the river is Fredericksburg, where the alcohol flows freely. And the man is, of course, me. How have I changed since that visit, in 2022, or even my first visit, in 2016, when my wife, daughter, and I watched the Christmas parade, and I ate my first Whataburger?

Well, we had our second kid. I lost a job, then took up freelance writing. We endured deaths in the family and a pandemic. We also adopted a dog, who is joining us on this trip. And while I made many return trips to Fredericksburg in between, indulging in its boozy pleasures, from locally brewed beer to famous wineries, I decided in September 2024 to become sober. My wife had a birthday, we went out to celebrate, and both of us agreed we would take a break from booze. No commitments, no timelines, no promises. Just an indefinite break.

As my early 40s set in, I realized I didn’t have energy and focus to spare—at work, with friends, with family. Drinking, the social lubricant behind so much of my personal and professional life, behind so many of my memories both fond and less so, had turned into a net negative. I decided to cut it out, maybe even for good.

As US 290 opens up west of Dripping Springs and reveals the Hill Country in all its open sky glory, one begins to understand the highway’s reputation as Wine Road. Gillespie County, where Fredericksburg resides, is home to more than 75 wineries, vineyards, and tasting rooms. Some bear names that have earned international respect, like William Chris. Others have names like Fat Ass. We pass by the Texas Wine Collective, where my wife and I were former members, drawn by its relationship with McPherson, the Lubbock-based winery that churns out beautiful, Texas-grown wines in a variety of styles. I remember, with some guilt, giving the kids extra tablet time so we could enjoy our complimentary glasses in peace.

Prior to this trip, I revisited our old itineraries. We had gone to Fredericksburg with and without kids; with and without my mother-in-law. My wife had gone with her girlfriends, leaving me behind. We’ve been there in every season. We once spent Father’s Day weekend there at the Holiday Inn, sipping beers poolside. I had also played chess with my daughter over a beer at the castle-like Altstadt taproom.

These memories flood back, but this time there will be no alcohol-fueled revelry. We will be sober in the city, now known as much for bachelorette parties as for its German heritage.

A funny thing about sobriety: Rather than nerd out over hops or terroir, I turn my attention to comparable topics, like how and where my coffee beans are sourced and roasted. Or, on this trip, to what went into some of the tastiest pizza crust I’ve ever had in my life.

We stop at Prometheus Pizza, thinking pizza is the most agreeable meal for a family of four. It turns out Prometheus isn’t really that type of pizza place. It’s artisanal—“Neopolitan/New Yorkish,” per the menu. But the kids go with it, feasting first on the incredible focaccia, made in-house, and then the pizza. We bypass the more adventurous offerings—like a bison-and-fermented-honey number called Basta!—for a prosciutto-arugula pie (for the grownups) and cheese (for the kids).

The secret to the crust, according to Prometheus co-founder Christopher Stephens, is flour from Barton Springs Mill, the heirloom grain specialists in Dripping Springs. It’s all organic and grown in Texas, and Stephens has formulated his dough to create a flavor profile somehow nutty and creamy with just a hint of cardamom and cinnamon. “That’s why it’s unique,” he says. A previous version of me would’ve washed it down with a couple of glasses of lambrusco and missed the flavor party going on in the slice. It’s similar to other post-drinking culinary epiphanies I’ve had, whether reveling in the exquisite tomato sauce Austin’s Fonda San Miguel serves its whitefish in or savoring the subtle green onions adorning the poached shrimp at Margaret’s in Marfa.

Prometheus, like several places we stop, also has nonalcoholic offerings, including a canned grapefruit IPA from Brooklyn Brewery and a Shirley Temple for four bucks. There’s also an expertly curated wine list, no surprise in a city where the convention and visitor’s bureau estimates tourists and tax revenue bring $190 million to the economy per year, a good portion of which is related to alcohol. I opt for a Rambler sparkling water.

At Alla Campagna, an Italian spot inside a lovingly restored limestone building on Main Street that dates to the 1870s, my wife and daughter enjoy a Roma, a mocktail made with hibiscus rosemary cordial and soda. I again go for sparkling and try not to notice they have two birres from Baladin, an Italian brewery not often seen in these parts. Temptation always lurks in sobriety.

Surprisingly, neither Altstadt nor Fredericksburg Brewing Company make a nonalcoholic beer. And while most wineries will bring you something sans booze, including a mocktail, I don’t find a winery making a nonalcoholic option. Later, I ask Robert Herrera, tasting room supervisor at the Texas Wine Collective, if they have considered offering a nonalcoholic wine. “We’ve had a lot of requests for them lately,” he says. “I know that if we had them, they’d sell for sure.”

When you’re not drinking, you realize how much time you once spent thinking about, planning for, and then experiencing your poison of choice. Going without clears up some calendar space. Looking back, it’s easy to see drinking as a crutch my wife and I used to alleviate the anxiety of figuring out how to entertain our children, especially on weekends. Sixteen hours a day is a lot to fill.

But on this holiday trip, we make it happen with a stop at Eisbahn, the annual skating rink put on by a local private school, despite the sunny 71-degree weather. The kids loop around the ice clumsily while my wife and I take photos and cheer them on. Later, we refuel with homemade scoops from Main Street’s charming Clear River Ice Cream and then pop over to scope out the trendy Albert Hotel on Main Street, where our attention is drawn to the enticing sunken pool. It’s almost warm enough to sneak in for a splash.

We end our day in the hot tub of the house where we’re staying. It’s close enough to downtown that you can hear the guitarist playing at Hondo’s on Main, but far enough that the sky is undisturbed by the lights of Fredericksburg. Not long ago, I would’ve considered getting in the car and driving downtown to grab a drink and enjoy some music or brought out a bottle of bubbly for the tub.

Instead, I take a deep breath of the slightly wintry air, tilt my head back, and marvel at a shooting star—spying its fast-fading trail. Because the sky, like my mind, is clear, moments like this are all I’m thirsting for now.