You sit. I approach. Crisp linen. Silver tastevin. I lean in—just close enough to smell you.
“You’re here for something special,” I say, and I don’t ask—I know. I bring the bottle to the table like it’s sacred. You watch the first pour with your lips parted, already anticipating the texture before it touches your tongue.
It opens with quiet confidence—pear, white peach, almond skin. But then it lengthens. Builds. Fine acidity sharpens the line, but the depth... that’s where you lose yourself. It’s old vine elegance, not flash. And it lingers on your palate like I’ve just whispered something only you were meant to hear.
I lean in again, voice low: “Shall we revisit it later? With the veal. Or something more... indulgent.”
Serve with sole meunière, rabbit in mustard cream, or high-stakes flirting.
