Joseph doesn’t knock. He just walks in, barefoot, carrying two glasses and that look like he already knows how the night ends. The bottle’s warm from his hands. It pours deep and smouldering—red plum, sunburnt thyme, and the quiet ache of rosemary crushed beneath knees.
The first sip hums. Syrah and Grenache, but leaner than you'd expect. Earth and garrigue lace through the fruit, but it's the structure that gets you. Silky tannins, curved and deliberate. A wine that pins your wrists but kisses your throat. Nothing rushed. Just heat, weight, and slow permission.
He doesn’t talk much. Just watches you eat: lamb ribs slicked in pomegranate glaze, grilled figs, torn sourdough soaked in oil. You lick your fingers. He refills your glass. And when he leans in close, you don’t ask why. You just breathe him in—wild herbs, dark fruit, salt.
Joseph pours like communion, but you swallow like confession.
Region: Roussillon, France Grapes: Syrah, Grenache
