It opens with a hiss like a zipper sliding down polyester. The bubbles rise with just enough froth to fog up the mirror, and suddenly it’s all wood panelling, gold chains, and a vinyl record spinning in the background. The colour’s hazy—like someone steamed up the camera lens—and the first sip is citrus zest, wet stones, and just a hint of ripe pear pressed against a velvet headboard.
Garganega doesn’t strut. It glides—clean, lightly floral, with a creamy little mousse that leaves the lips just sticky enough for a second take. There's something salty at the finish, something cheeky, like a knowing wink from behind oversized sunglasses. It’s not flashy. It’s filthy classic.
Slide it into a night of fried zucchini blossoms, grilled calamari, or popcorn drenched in good butter and bad intentions.
