You wake up gagged by citrus. Not literally—but your mouth is dry, lips coated in lemon oil and dusted stone. You’re not in danger, not exactly. But something is watching. And it just poured you a glass.
It’s too cold. Too clean. Too… composed. Vermentino slices first—grapefruit pith and green almond. Then Roussanne and Marsanne glide in like polished interrogators, adding weight, charm, the kind of smooth that talks you into trouble. Every sip feels like consent to something you don’t fully understand.
There’s no fruit bowl here. Just chalk, steel, and sweat. You taste sea spray and bitter herbs—rosemary? sage?—pressed flat under silk sheets. You eat because you were told to: smoked eel on black bread, pickled green strawberries, saffron-stained rice you can’t quite identify. You chew slow. The wine watches.
Every sip strips away something you didn’t realise you were hiding.
Region: Corbières, Languedoc, France Grapes: Marsanne, Roussanne, Vermentino
