It doesn’t ask what you’re ready for. It simply begins.
The nose alone is a flood: lime pith, tart peach skin, broken river stone, and something electric—like the ozone just before a thunderstorm. You breathe it in and feel your pupils dilate. There’s no warning before the first sip slices in—bracing acidity that sears across the tongue like citrus silk pulled too tight.
And yet… underneath, something hums. An undertow of salinity, a quiet curve of fleshier fruit—barely-ripe nectarine, white cherry, a whisper of jasmine. The balance is unnerving. Stainless steel tension meets spontaneous fermentation chaos, and somehow, the finish is longer than memory.
The vineyard clings to the slopes above the Mosel, a place you can only farm with stubborn hands and aching calves. The wine reflects that edge. It teases, pulls, seduces—but never lets you relax.
Serve with raw scallops, barely seared. Cold soba with yuzu. Or a silence so thick it vibrates.
