You find yourself drawn into a locked room with flickering candles and one covered decanter at the center. They invite you closer—just close enough to smell the tension: black cherry, damp forest floor, a touch of dried herbs. Grenache brings red-fruit seduction while Mourvèdre leans dark, a velvet kiss with underbrush lurking just beyond your lips.
Half the clusters were included whole, stems and all, macerating silently for a month. Tension builds, fibers twist, and when it finally pours—months later from a massive foudre—it’s dense yet lithe. The terroir shows its claws: grey clay, quartz, basalt and silex all wrapped into the glass.
You taste it. You know you shouldn’t. But the tannins catch you by surprise—firmer than you'd expect—nail-scrape strong, holding you in place, begging more. You’re handed a plate of saddle of rabbit in herb jus, seared veal sweetbreads, and grilled wild mushrooms. You take the smallest bite—and it flares: saliva, blood, soil, smoke.
It’s forbidden. It’s earthy. It knows the secret you’ve been dying to admit. And now, neither of you is leaving.
Region: Languedoc, France Grapes: Grenache, Mourvèdre
