This is dangerous; he was clearly nonplussed when I said I wanted it, as he needs it for
his Heurige and was concerned I'd plunder too much. This wine is much better than it “needs” to be, and costs about a third what it’s worth. It has remarkable polish and sheer delight of fruit; prototypical GV, long, peppery and happy, with a creamy sort of smoothness; it’s on the market now as
you read this—do you have some?
Just think about it: you’re sitting in a leafy garden on a warm summer evening with
friends, just chillin’ and schmoozin’ over plates of cold-cuts, listening to the birds, glad
to be alive. You’d be happy if the wine you’re sluggin’ down were merely pleasant; after
all, it’s not about the wine, it’s about something larger in which wine plays a necessary part. But the moment you taste the wine . . . Hey; this is good. Suddenly life seems absolutely perfect, and you are somewhere above your body, looking at the happy faces
of your friends and hearing the cheerful clamor of plates, glasses and voices. You take
another sip, and rejoin the merriment.