Wine And Books Porto Novels & Stories

“Bordeaux is a beautiful area,” Giovanni told Fontanna as he steered the car through the streets. “It’s really come alive in recent years, after they built the public transit system. The property sits just outside of town, on the opposite end of the vineyards, but still close enough for you to visit the main hub of activity.”

Yolanda led Summer and Susanne to a quiet corner of the hall. She explained softly, "I went around the hall earlier. I found that most of the wines in the competition were from Hennessy, Château Lafite Rothschild, Rémy Martin, Château Latour, and Château Haut-Brion. You can narrow it down to these five winehouses in the competition." Through Yolanda's keen observation, she realized that only wines from five specific winehouses were served at the party, with no other varieties present.

Ezekiel turned to Aurelia, his eyes softening in gratitude. They stood before a stunning collection of exotic wines from the nineteenth century, meticulously displayed on polished mahogany shelves. The dimly lit room highlighted the wines' rich hues, casting a warm glow on the delicate glass bottles. Aurelia's gaze wandered over the impressive selection, recognizing some of the rarest vintages. Ezekiel gestured to the collection. "Some of the finest wines in the world. I thought you might appreciate them." Aurelia's eyes widened as she reached out to touch an 1869 Château Lafite. "This is incredible. Thank you for inviting me.”

My brain struggles to process what I’m seeing. What the fuck. Inside my locker sits a bottle of red wine. My favorite. I hardly drink, but when I do, it’s always red. Not the cheap kind either—the deep, rich kind that tastes like dark berries and warm earth. This particular bottle is from a tiny winery in southern France. Zara and I discovered it two summers ago during a wine tour through the countryside. The vineyard had been hidden between rolling green hills, the air thick with sunlight and the smell of grapes. The owner poured us glasses while telling stories about his grandfather, and by the end of the tour we had bought ten bottles to bring home.

What other secret are you hiding behind your name and the past glory or your brother which still lingers in this pack? There were more. I couldn’t get through all of them because he finally stepped into my space and offered a glass of wine. “Here,” My gaze flicked from him to the wine bottle. “Did you call me here to drink? Because I have more important things to do other than…” “Paris no one rejects a vintage port. It’s tasty. Won’t hurt,” I looked at the glass again, then looked away. “Just one glass,” he pressed. I took the glass reluctantly and sniffed it. The smell forced my head away from the cup. “Smells like spice,”

The space was minimalist yet undeniably luxurious, dominated by dark colors and clean lines. To the right was a sitting area with black leather sofas facing a marble coffee table. On the table sat an open bottle of red wine, clearly being allowed to breathe, and a half-empty glass. My eyes inadvertently drifted to Aiden's lips as he walked past me. They looked slightly stained from the wine, a deeper red than usual. Something about the observation made my cheeks warm. "Would you like some?" he asked, noticing my gaze on the wine. "It's a Château Margaux, 2010. Excellent vintage."

It never turns out well. "I'm glad you could be here," Quincy says kindly, taking the wine out of my hand and looking at the label. "Petrolo Galatrona 2013 straight from Tuscany. Wow. This is a great year." "You know wine?" I ask, brows crinkling. "With the way you suck down those yard-long margaritas, I thought all you liked were cheap drinks." I can tell by the look on Quincy's face my lame attempt at a joke failed. Once again I open mouth, insert foot.

The feeling of a floor dropping away and discovering that you have been standing on it your whole life without knowing. I pick up the bottle of Porto. We bought it on the third day of our honeymoon, from a man at a roadside market who didn’t speak English and didn’t need to. Dominic carried it in his backpack for the rest of the trip, careful with it, and when we got home he wrote the date on the label in marker and said *only on a milestone.* I put it in the back of the wine rack and left it there for five years. I carry it to the kitchen. I open it. I pour it down the sink and watch it go.

Liza roared, as though she wished to drown out any ideas forming in her daughters head. “How did you like the wine?” Liza asked. “Oh, it’s wonderful! I really enjoyed it!” “Really? What about the ‘Portburgh 789’ that I sent to your estate last summer, did you like it?” -Portburg 789? OH! The wine I had had before…- “Maddeningly,” I replied. “Really, why did you not reply? I wanted to introduce you to the Vintner! I had hoped that you’d collaborate with him, invest in-.

She looked so innocent, which made me smirk at the thought of how fiercely she used to confront Noah. "What?" she asked, approaching me. "I thought you were asleep." "What should I do? Someone woke me up!" "What's this?" she continued, eyeing the wine. "I’ve seen Noah drinking it before, and almost all his cellar is filled with it. It looks brand new!" "Scasseri? Huh." "Yeah, it’s made from grapes grown under the shadow of a volcano in Italy." "Wow, never heard of that before!" She picked up a wine glass, ready to pour herself a drink, but I stopped her, earning a sharp look from her.