Hands on the wall, breath hot against your neck, and you swear you can feel the granite slope of Saint Grégoire pressing into your back through him. This wine doesn’t wait for permission — it slides in and fills the space with pale yellow intensity and silver streaks of light.
Its scent is clean but charged: white and yellow flowers crushed underfoot, peach skin on warm stone. You lean in anyway.
The first sip catches you — fuller than you expected, rounded in all the right places, but finished with a firm grip of freshness that sends a shiver through you. Fruit — soft and ripe — clings for a moment before slipping into something cooler, more restrained, and you’re left wanting it again.
It thrives alongside oysters cold and briny, quiche still steaming and torn apart, asparagus glazed and slick — the kind of food you don’t bother to plate when you’re already tangled up in the moment.
No excuses. No shame. Just pleasure, exactly as you like it.
