You shouldn’t be here. The sign said no mortals allowed. But the moment you slipped behind that velvet curtain of rose petals and wild thyme, something ancient started whispering your name.
It drinks like prophecy — wild strawberries crushed with salt, blood orange dripping down your wrist, and rosehip tea steeped under a full moon. The texture is satin-laced temptation: smooth, gliding, but with just enough grip to remind you you’re trespassing.
You let it stain your lips as you press deeper into the grove. Beneath a fig tree, someone’s watching. Not with judgement — with hunger. A god, maybe. Or a reflection of your own divinity, blooming with every sip.
Grilled octopus charred at the edges, watermelon sprinkled with Aleppo pepper, and a buckwheat galette filled with goat cheese and herbs. This is no picnic — it’s an offering.
Region: Douzens, Corbières, Languedoc, France Grapes: Chenancon, Grenache Blanc
