Sitting by the Tuscan sea after a slow day spent
between fishing and idleness, I think it’s time
for an aperitif. I walk barefoot towards
the bamboo-covered bar where I spend most
of my holiday evenings. I can still feel the heat of the day in the sand beneath my feet while I walk towards the bar, thinking about what to order.
No cocktails tonight, to keep me company
will be a bottle of wine. I ask for the list and I spend
a few minutes browsing it, resting lazily on one of the high stools. I let myself be guided by my tireless curiosity, going through the various wines that I have not yet tried, but that I am going to do tonight.
I order my wine just as next to me a linen sofa
becomes available, on which I have every intention
of resting to enjoy the sunset. As usual,
I take the first sip with an empty mind: I don’t want thoughts or inner monologues, just feel the pleasantness of the gesture. The wine is good, cool
at the right point and goes down well, with that
flavour that I love so much and that makes me immediately want another sip. How beautiful is the world of natural wines, capable of telling so much about the place they come from and the hands
that produce them. Tonight I was right to choose
this wine; I need good company and stories.
While I watch the sun sinking slowly
below the horizon, the thought comes to me
for the first time: why a natural wine cannot be the starting point for a vermouth that tells the story
about Italy and the Mediterranean, their history and their flavours? And why can’t I be the one to do it?