“Gimmicky,” he responds, and reaches for the glass, not rushing. “Names can wait. Tell me if it works.” His attention stays on me, not the bottle.
But I’m still stuck on Gio. She calls him Gio.
I don’t know if that’s adorable or terrifying.
I sip again, then nod. “It works.” He gives the smallest smile, like that was the only note he needed, and gestures for Alessia to pour the next wine.
We move to the white. She pours a pale straw wine that throws off a different kind of light. Softer, warmer. “Albana secca,” she says. “Old vines, hillside parcel. Ten percent in old tonneaux, the rest in steel. No tricks.”
Albana can be a mess if you don’t respect it. This one isn’t. Nose: pear skin, chamomile, a little honeycomb if you squint. On the palate: a roundness that’s not too buttery, a bitterness at the end I like in the same way I like the last sip of very strong tea. With the fennel salad, everything lines up perfectly: anise talking tochamomile, the olive waking the acid right up to come alive on my tongue.
“Anchovies,” I say out loud to no one, because I can already taste a tin opened and the way the Albana will handle it. “Raw artichokes shaved thin with lemon and Parmigiano. You could do a passatelli in brodo and let this be the surprise at the table. No, too on the nose. Save that for the sparkling.”
“The Albana wants oil and salt,” Alessia says, approving. “It hates sugar.”
“Sugar is a bad friend,” I say, and Alessia’s mouth twitches as if she agrees.
Giovanni takes a measured sip, glances at the fennel, then back to me. “Would you put it on a menu?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “By the glass. With a chalkboard note: ‘Albana—anchovy, fennel, raw artichoke.’ People will order the plate just for the wine.”
He nods once, satisfied. “Good. Then let’s see if the red earns dinner,” he says, and tips his chin for Alessia to pour the next bottle.
She left the red for last, and I already know why.
Before she even pours, I smell cherries. Real ones.
She pours. Clear ruby. No ink. The rim is bright. I look at it almost reverently, like a piece of clothing I want but shouldn’t spend the money on.
I take the glass to the light and then to my nose and freeze, because it smells like something I know and didn’t know I missed.
I was right. Real cherries. The kind with the pit you have to dig out for a pie. Under it, blood orange. A hint of rubbed sage. And something earthy that gives it just the right amount of balance.
“Sangiovese,” I say, because if it isn’t, I’ll set the winery on fire.
Alessia laughs in surprise. “Sangiovese di Romagna. Two parcels. One higher, one lower. We kept the maceration in check to keep the tannin fine, then we let the élevage do its job. A year in large-format Slavonian. Three months in cement. Nothing to hide mistakes.”
I am too far in to pretend I’m not excited. I take a sip and then close my eyes because looking at anything will distract me from tasting it. It glides across my tongue like a lover, leaving behind: sour cherry, red currant, a smack of orange oil, then the savory sage that reminds me of the kitchen on Sunday. The tannins are silk thread, not rope. The acid is exactly what it should be: a spine. The finish leaves a blush of something that makes my cheeks warm. Not oak. Heat? No. Joy? Maybe.
Giovanni doesn’t say a word. I can feel him across the table like a wall radiating steady warmth.
Alessia gestures to the roast beef, to the radicchio. “With food now.”
I take a slice of the beef and drag one edge through truffle salt, almost like it’s a sin. The wine picks up the truffle and carries it past the beef into something longer, deeper, cleaner. Truffle turns dirty quickly if you mishandle it. The wine keeps it in the right spot.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay.” I take a wedge of the Parmigiano, probably older than me, and let it crunch and bloom under my molars. The wine loves it. They become a thing together, a thing I don’t have a word for— either in English or Italian.
In my head, the tomatoes in the market call to me, and a skillet lands on the stove.
“Tagliatelle al ragù,” I hear myself say. “But not the heavy kind. Light and delicate. Pork and beef, soffritto lazy and patient, a little milk to pull the edges round. Or grilled lamb ribs with a salsa verde that’s more herb than oil, barely anchovy, capers rinsed.”
Alessia smiles like a proud mother. “Radicchio al forno,” she says, tapping the plate. “You already tasted it. Balsamic that’s seen life but not too much. Or crescentine with”—she glances at my face and corrects herself—“with nothing, actually. Let the wine do the talking, and you keep your hands in your pockets.”
“Wild boar, if you’re going to be a show-off,” I add, “but you don’t need the hunter story. Roast chicken with garlic and lemon and rest. The fat will make the cherries sit up straight.”
I’m not wallowing anymore. I realize that only because my chest hurts in a different way, the way it does when I see something that I want to run toward and build on.
I taste again. I try to invent flaws. Too much acid? No. Not Italian hot sauce; this is line and length. Tannin asleep? No; it’s awake, it’s just a little shy. Oak? A sturdy chair in the corner. Fruit? Red, alive, no jam. Heat? Integrated. Finish? Clean; it leaves you ready to dance instead of ready to nap.
