Look at you. Holding me like you know what you’re doing. You don’t.
You swirl too fast, you sniff too long, and you probably think my dark cherry and dried herb notes are “complex.” Adorable.
The truth? I’m leagues above your palate. My tannins are too structured for you. My acidity is sharper than your best comeback. That leathery, tobacco depth? You won’t even taste it until I’m done with you.
But go ahead—keep sipping. Keep pretending you can keep up. Every swallow just proves how far out of your league you are.
Pair me with roast lamb, aged Pecorino, or whatever you think makes you look sophisticated. I’ll still know the truth.
