You weren’t planning on going home with anyone. Then this showed up — cold, fizzy, and full of bad ideas. One pop of the crown cap and suddenly you’re on a kitchen floor at 1:42am, singing with your shoes off and sauce on your shirt.
The wine rushes in with wild cherries, black raspberries, and that distinct Lambrusco hum — like grape skins rubbed on granite. The bubbles are dirty. Not refined. Not subtle. They foam up like laughter mid-kiss. Lambrusco Ruberti, grown in the sands of Mantova, pressed fast and fermented wild, like no one was watching. Except they were. And they filmed it.
The tannins are cheeky — they tug, but don’t restrain. The acidity slices through everything you thought dinner was going to be. You could chill it more, but why bother? You’re already flushed. You’re already texting someone you shouldn’t.
Drink it with whatever’s left in the fridge. Cold lasagna, potato chips, salami straight from the butcher paper. Or don’t eat. Just drink. Just laugh. Just lean in, stained teeth and all.
