It doesn’t ask for attention. It lures. At first, it's gentle—citrus oil, white blossom, something faintly herbal drifting from the glass like a whispered dare. But then it tightens. The acidity coils around your tongue, lean and calculating. There’s no sweetness here—just the dry seduction of precision. Salt. Stone. A flick of bitterness like a secret you shouldn’t know but now can’t forget.
You don’t drink this wine. You follow it—down into the glass, through the tension, past the clean, polished surface. And just when you think you’ve got it figured out, it turns, smirking, and disappears into the finish.
Serve it with marinated anchovies, fennel salad, or someone else's alibi.
