CORKSCREW
and spruce sap emanated from my glass. I glanced at my co-sommelier, Allison Strom, and we both nodded, slowly, silently, communicating: “This is good, really freaking good.” I didn’t spit it out, leading to inevitable lightheadedness. This led to boiling over with praise, and that led to an overuse of the f-word. Still, they hosted us gracefully. I didn’t die, and we had to move on. And so, we got lost, scraped the rental car on a cliff road, and finally found Viúva Gomes, one of the oldest wineries in Colares, recommended by a writer from the World’s 50 Best. The owner, José Baeta, greeted us, laid out cheese, and walked us through this legendary warehouse. His tone was soft. He pointed to a small iron-grid cell, loaded with dusty bottles, calling it his insurance policy. They still rent a grape de-stemmer. I was charmed. To plant a vine here, a deep pit must be dug in the sand to reach the underlying clay. I have heard that planting one vine can cost thousands of dollars. Why bother to buy a de-stemmer when this is all one needs. There were gigantic barrels made by familial ghosts from lifetime’s ago. José spoke with pride about his son’s wines—those labeled "Pirata" and "Tutti Frutti," more bright wax-topped
"To plant a vine here, a deep pit must be dug in the sand to reach the underlying clay. I have heard that planting one
vine can cost thousands of dollars."
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