You’re three glasses in before anyone realises it only costs pocket change—and by then it’s too late. The screwcap’s been flung somewhere behind the counter, someone’s explaining malolactic fermentation while sitting cross-legged on a milk crate, and the last scallop has been stabbed straight off the shared plate.
In the glass? Cloudy straw like someone juiced a pear, forgot to strain it, and said “trust me.” It smells honest—pear skins, crushed lemon balm, and a bit of chalk, like licking the back of a menu written in pencil. There’s tension, a flicker of salinity, and just enough texture to make it feel like more than it is.
And on the tongue? It hits like the third best date you ever had. Unexpectedly good, a little rough, and somehow exactly what you needed. Orchard fruit, lemon zest, something almost herbal, maybe thyme—or maybe that’s the cigarette someone’s smoking nearby. It doesn’t matter.
Serve with greasy fingers pulling apart grilled squid. Or boxed spaghetti aglio e olio eaten straight from the pot at midnight. And for dessert? Laughter echoing off alley walls and the last bite of cheese you swore you were saving.
It’s not refined. But it is real. And tonight, that’s enough.
