Page 52 of The Wrong Vintage
I kiss her softly, lightly. “Buongiorno, mia moglie.”
She blushes. “Good morning. Ah…I have to…you know…go.”
She’s flustered, and I’m absurdly proud that I’m the cause.She’s usually so unflappable—steady, composed, always in control—that seeing her thrown off balance feels like being trusted with something fragile.
“I’ll be right here,” I tell her.
She leaves with a bright smile that makes me incredibly happy.
I drink another cup of coffee and settle in under the pergola, where we had dinner last night, with my laptop.
I call Renzo before eight.
“You’re going to hate me,” I tell him.
“I already do,” he replies. “What did you do now?”
“How do you feel about having lunch at Tenuta Pietra Alta?”
There’s a pause. Then a laugh. “Did you spend the night with your wife, or did you get there early in the morning?”
I ignore his question. “Since we have several meetings, it would be better to do them face-to-face rather than over the phone.”
“So we did spend the night! And how is the little missus?”
I ignore his remark. “I’d like to go through the quarterly numbers and also get a progress report on South Africa.”
“Alright, I get the message, you don’t want to kiss and tell.” He’s obviously enjoying himself. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
It takes him longer because of traffic, but by lunchtime we’ve taken over the long table under the pergola—papers spread out, laptops open, espresso cups multiplying like rabbits.
Zoya has been taking care of us—and flirting outrageously with Renzo. Not exactly professional, as neither of them stands on ceremony.
However, it stays firmly in the realm of lighthearted fun.
After all, Zoya is apparently having a hot and heavyrelationship with a construction worker with very big, muscled arms.
Working like this is familiar and comfortable in a way Florence isn’t. This is how it used to be at Cantina Alarico—long days, informal work, laughter threaded through the labor.
Since the merger, we’ve grown more staid, shaped by the corporate gravity of the House of Alighieri. It wasn’t a decision we made. It simply happened. When you work in a place like Palazzo Alighieri, where history whispers from every corner, reverence becomes part of the air you breathe.
But here, in the open Bolgheri light, there is reverenceandfreedom. The land insists on it. You’re closer to theterroir, closer to the vine—to the heart of what we do.
Some of Alessia’s team join us for lunch in the dining room, giving us a sense of what guests experience when they come to the estate for a wine tasting.
Lucia, her assistant winemaker and right hand in the cellar, sits across from me, and next to her is Edam, the vineyard manager, who seems to know every vine personally. Then there is Hortensio from the lab, who looks like he hasn’t slept properly sinceveraisonbegan.
The chef sets our table for a family-style meal and refuses to eat with us.
Dino Ferri has been the estate chef for over a decade, I learn. He runs everything from the kitchen to the tasting room with efficiency and creativity, according to Alessia, designing menus around estate-grown produce and seasonal availability.
Platters of grilled vegetables—zucchini, eggplant, peppers blistered until sweet—drizzled with olive oil pressed from the estate’s own groves.
A bowl of farro tossed with cherry tomatoes, basil, and shaved pecorino.
Slices of cold roast chicken with lemon and rosemary, still impossibly juicy.
Fresh bread torn by hand, crusty and warm, served with a dish of oil so green it borders on fluorescent.
