This isn’t a wine—it’s a safe word waiting to be ignored. It doesn’t knock. It kicks the door open in full leather, smelling of ripe bruised apricots, dried mango, crushed turmeric root, and something floral, sticky, and slightly threatening—like a bouquet with a knife hidden in it.
Traminer and Pinot Blanc don’t blend here. They collide. One brings the perfume—rose petals soaked in absinthe and sin. The other brings grip, bitterness, and a chalky texture that claws at the edges of your mouth like it’s marking its territory.
The tannins? Firm. Very firm. They don’t caress—they bind. The fruit is golden, oxidised, a little sweaty, like nectar dripping down sunburnt skin. There’s spice—cardamom, wild sage, orange peel ground under a bootheel—and something slightly animal, like wet rope or the back of a leather collar.
Let it dominate a plate of cumin-rubbed lamb ribs charred to blackened perfection, served beside burnt carrots in smoked yogurt. Or go full tilt with grilled halloumi topped with pickled apricots and fermented chili honey. For dessert? Don’t even bother. You’re full, spent, and somehow hungrier than ever.
This wine doesn’t ask what you want. It tells you what you need.
