IN VINO VERITAS
I fell in love with wine from afar. Watching one of the coolest guys I ever met entertaining on the terrace of his old rectory up in the hills behind Nice in the South of France — technically the Côte d’Azur in Provence. Of course, it was preceded by the clanking of freezing-cold ice cubes into long glasses, soon filled with syrupy green Pernod Ricard Pastis 51, which smelled of licorice and added gasoline to the conversational fire. Aperitifs over, the cicadas raised their calf-rubbing to a crescendo, the air resonated with pine sap, and the wine began to
