Mood?
I watch Alessia’s mouth close. Watch her swallow whatever she was about to say. She steps back—not retreating, just making space, not wanting to compete with Chiara. I don’t know if it is because she thinks Chiara isn’t worthy, orbecause she’s afraid to lose. Either way, I don’t let it pass, not this time.
It would be easy. Chiara smoothing things over, Alessia absorbing the slight, the magazine leaving with pretty photos and a shallow story. No confrontation. No discomfort.
“Actually,” I say loudly enough to stop all chatter.
I step forward, positioning myself not in front of Alessia but beside her.
“I thought we were here to write about women winemakers, and Alessia Alighieri is the only female winemaker in the company. Not only that, she’s both a winemaker here and she manages the viticulture as well—one of the few we have who are able to do both.”
“Oh…well,” Stasia stammers and looks at Chiara for direction. That confirms my suspicions. Chiara pitched Alessia as a way to undermine my wife—and if I wasn’t here, she’d have succeeded, not because Alessia is weak, hell no, but I think because my wife doesn’t give two shits about editors and photographers. But publicly, she’d be diminished. I don’t know how that benefits Chiara, but you bet the vineyard, I intend to find out.
“If you’re writing about women in wine,” I add, “she’s not the supporting voice, sheisthe authority.”
“Oh,” the editor says.
Alessia turns her head just enough to look at me. Her eyes are wide—not with triumph, but disbelief. As if she’s waiting for the ground to give way.
She can’t believe I’m standing up for her. She’s not used to this.
“Can you tell me what it means to you to be a woman winemaker? We still don’t have too many of those.” Stasia turns her focus on Alessia, aware that I supersede whatever instruction Chiara gave to her.
“Being a woman winemaker is the same as being a malewinemaker. You oversee vineyard management parcel by parcel,” she says, amused. “Should we take this to the house? We have arranged for a wine tasting for you, and I know the chef has prepared a light lunch.”
We move toward the Tenuta Pietra Alta tasting room and kitchen, the photographer already trailing Alessia, camera lifting instinctively as if it knows where the gravity is now.
“What was that?” Chiara hisses.
“I think that’s my question to you,” I reply curtly. “Let’s save it for after the wine tasting.” It comes across as a warning, as it’s meant to.
Alessia has set up the tasting in the greenhouse off the main cellar—glass walls thrown open to the afternoon air, long wooden table laid simply. Sunlight filters through climbing jasmine and fig trees trained along the beams. Everything smells green and alive.
She knows what photographs well and how she wants Tenuta Pietra Alta to be presented to the world. She has set it up. Once again, I have to adjust my opinion of her.
Shedoesn’t want publicity, but she wants it for the estate and her wines.
“This is where we taste when we want to remember why we do this,” Alessia announces with pride.
“It’s perfect,” Eugenio murmurs, taking shots.
Two bottles wait in an ice bucket on a wooden cradle, while one, atinto,a red, is waiting next to them. The labels for all the wines are intentionally turned outward.
“We’ll start with the AlighieriMetodo ClassicoRosé Extra Brut. It’s our palate reset.” She opens the bottle with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times, thumb firm against the cork, releasing it with nothing more than a soft sigh.
It’s somehow incongruous with her sloppy hair bun, herbare, luminous face, and eyes that hold centuries of inherited knowledge.
She pours with a steady hand, watching the mousse rise in a fine, persistent column. She waits, letting it settle.
“This is very lowdosage,” she explains. “We don’t correct what the vineyard gives us—we respect it. It’s predominantly Pinot Noir for structure and tension, with a touch of Chardonnay for lift. The color comes from brief skin contact, just enough to coax out that wild strawberry hue without losing precision. We age it nearly twenty months on thelees, so you get that brioche edge, a little toasted almond, but still bright red currant and blood orange.”
“Why so long on thelees?” Stasia asks, leaning forward.
“Because patience builds texture,” Alessia replies simply. “The bubbles become finer. The palate becomes silk instead of sparkle.”
I watch the editor take a sip, close her eyes. “It’s…restrained in the most marvelous way. Elegant, but not showy. I have to say, Alessia, this rivals anything from Reims.”
Alessia lifts one shoulder in an almost careless shrug. “We don’t try to rival anyone. But yes…I do think we’re better than most of them.”
