They don’t bring you a wine list. Just a single glass. “Trust me,” they say, and you do—because the way they hold that bottle is already making your pulse skip. You lift it to your nose: sour cherry, freshly torn violets, something herbal, like sage crushed between warm fingers.
The first sip is lean, lifted, impossibly elegant. It’s Gamay, yes, but not the flirty kind. This one’s been trained. 80-year-old vines, concrete vats, no oak—nothing to distract from its poise. The tannins are silk-threaded, the acidity like a perfectly folded napkin—sharp, discreet, absolutely intentional.
They describe it in hushed tones, fingers brushing the stem of your glass. You nod, but you’re not really listening anymore. You’re imagining this wine with veal sweetbreads in brown butter, black garlic gnocchi, or roasted duck with plum glaze. You want the pairing—and maybe just a little more of the person who chose it.
