They stumble out of the bar together—shirts half-tucked, laughter sticky with midnight cocktails. Someone produces this bottle, still cool from the cellar. The cork pops like a dare, and the wine rushes out in a pale gold torrent that smells of green apple peel, quince, and a flash of flinty smoke. Old-vine Chenin grown on light clay and silex doesn’t bother with subtle entrances; it just owns the curb.
First gulp—no glass—dribbles down a chin. Lightning-bright acidity slices through last call’s haze while a saline snap reminds them both there’s bedrock beneath the recklessness. Wild-yeast texture hums in the background, a hint of fuzz that clings like a stranger’s perfume the morning after. Fermented bone-dry, bottled unfiltered and unsulfured, it’s dangerously easy to keep passing back and forth until the streetlights blur.
Greasy late-night bao bursting with pork belly, a fistful of kettle chips dusted in vinegar, and wedges of Manchego stolen from the fridge become impromptu foreplay on the hood of a parked car. They don’t remember who suggested skinny-dipping in the river—only that the bottle floated beside them, still half-full and tasting of rain-soaked chalk and peach skin.
Region: Vouvray, Loire Valley, France Grapes: Chenin Blanc
