She’s not what you came for. But there she is—barefoot, soaking wet, laughing at your accent, and handing you a glass before you can say no. No makeup. No label. Just sunburnt skin and a slice of Grechetto chill.
On the nose? Wild herbs crushed in someone’s back garden. Lemon peel. Fennel fronds. A splash of river water. There’s fruit, but it’s fuzzy—like biting into a peach you stole and never washed. A touch of funk, but playful. It’s not trying to be clean. It’s trying to be fun.
The palate opens with bright acidity and a salty snap—think sour apple, underripe apricot, and orange blossoms rolled in chamomile. It’s got texture. It’s got twang. It doesn’t overstay its welcome, but it lingers long enough to make you wonder what would’ve happened if you’d stayed the night.
Serve it with fried zucchini flowers stuffed with goat cheese, lemony clam linguine, or a tomato and peach salad tossed in mint and vinegar. Eat it all with your hands.
It’s not refined. But it’s real. And you’ll be thinking about her long after the bottle’s gone.
