It enters like a pressed white shirt still warm from the iron—crisp, clean, with structure you want to run your fingers along. But then something stirs beneath the starch: a flicker of smoke, a trace of petrol rising like heat off summer asphalt. Suddenly the poise feels dangerous.
The nose opens slowly—green apple skin, lemon pith, crushed herbs, all brushed with jasmine and flint. Then it pulls taut. The palate snaps into focus with lime juice, white peach, and a precise mineral core that hums like a held breath. Nothing flashy. Just steady, coiled intensity—like someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, and doesn’t need to prove it.
Pair it with langoustine in beurre blanc, letting the citrus and salt play tag. Roasted kohlrabi in miso butter follows—earthy and sweet. And then a slice of young pecorino drizzled in acacia honey, where sharpness melts into cream and the wine’s quiet edge cuts through it all like a clean line through silk.
There’s something deeply satisfying about this one. It’s not showing off. It just knows where all your buttons are.
