You showed up for “just one glass.” Now it’s 2am, someone’s standing barefoot on the counter belting ABBA, and the only thing still cold is the bottle of Amfòra spinning on the kitchen table.
It’s hazy and golden, like someone liquefied the end of summer. The nose? All over the place—in the best way. Crushed rose petals, musky peaches, citrus rinds left out in the sun. The kind of perfume you remember the next day, stuck to your shirt collar.
On the palate it’s loose, a little dirty, and seriously fun. Three months on skins and months in buried amphora have given it grip and depth, but it never takes itself too seriously. It’s floral. It’s bitter. It’s got that “wanna make out?” kind of swagger.
Someone brings out fried halloumi with mint yoghurt, someone else dumps a bag of crisps into a mixing bowl, and you’re just chasing salt and chaos until the bottle’s empty. You’ll forget half the night—but not this wine.
Region: Coteaux de Bessilles, Languedoc, France Grapes: Muscat Blanc à Petits Grains, Clairette, Piquepoul
