I only ever drink this when I shouldn't. It’s not the kind of wine you open to impress guests—it’s the kind you pour when the room’s already too dark and your shirt’s halfway off. It tastes like regret and lust braided together with velvet rope. Overripe black fruit, bruised plums, and heat like a slap to the back of the throat. The tannins don’t bite—they purr. Gentle, broken-in leather and that Port-like whisper of oxidation, like the bottle knew your secrets before you even pulled the cork.
It’s indulgent, filthy, and just this side of reckless. You feel it long after the last sip—dripping from your lips, settling between your ribs. Pair it with a bloody ribeye or something pungent and obscene, like Époisses left out too long. Whatever you do, eat it with your hands.
