The belt was stiff, thick, and smelled like real leather should.
Not the overly processed, factory-tanned stuff you find in designer boutiques. This was the kind of leather that still had life in it. You could see the imperfections—the tiny scars from whatever steer had once worn it.
It wasn’t polished.
It wasn’t sleek.
And it definitely wasn’t “elegant,” as the shop owner put it.
I was in Chacabuco, a small town in Argentina’s countryside, a few hours from Buenos Aires. I’d come for a wedding and, as usual, had forgotten something.
A belt, this time.
The woman at the shop apologized.
“I’m sorry, we only have rural leather. Nothing luxurious.”
She said it with a tinge of regret, as if she assumed I wanted something stitched with gold thread and embossed with a logo.
But the belt was perfect.
Handmade. Solid. Built to last.
It made me wonder—when did we start apologizing for things that are real?
The Illusion of Luxury
Luxury is a funny thing.
People chase it. Spend fortunes on it. Try to surround themselves with it. But so much of what’s sold as “luxury” today is just marketing dressed up in fine leather and good lighting.
Someone gifted me a pair of expensive jeans recently. Really expensive—the kind you’d find in a boutique in Paris or New York, stacked neatly on minimalist wooden shelves.
The denim was fantastic.
The fit was precise.
But do you know what they didn’t think about?
The leather tag on the back.
It started shrinking, like a slug in salt—pulling the fabric, warping the shape. I had to undo the stitches just to make the damn things wearable.
That’s the problem with modern luxury. You’re paying for the illusion, not the execution.
Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about craftsmanship and became a game of signaling rather than substance.
And now?
Has the market finally caught on?
The Value That Never Leaves
Luxury sales are dropping. Closets are full, wallets less so. Maybe people bought too many handbags. Maybe too many $300 T-shirts that didn’t survive a second season.
Profit margins are slipping. Brands that once ran comfortably at 21% are now closer to 18–19%.
People aren’t necessarily spending less.
They’re just spending differently.
Experiences over excess.
A well-chosen meal over another logo.
In Buenos Aires, you see the same thing. Prices creeping toward New York levels—but the quality doesn’t always follow. You pay a premium for a meal that was better when it cost half as much.
But the things that last still hold their value.
The restaurants that don’t cut corners.
The theaters with history in their walls.
The vineyards in the mountains, where winemakers still wake before dawn to walk the vines.
They’re still there.
People return to them after too long living in a nimbus of shrimp foam and liquid-nitrogen ice cream.
You start to wonder—do they know something I don’t?
Or are they missing something I still see?
Paris. New York. Buenos Aires.
Booms and busts come and go, but the architecture, the culture, the gastronomy—they don’t disappear. They wait for the people who appreciate them to come back.
And Chacabuco?
Same story.
Some empty storefronts. Some buildings in need of repair. The town has seen better days, sure.
But the coffee shops were full.
The plaza was alive.
The land was still rich with grain.
The economy shifts.
Trend-chasers move on.
But the things that matter?
They stay.
A Long Table, A Simple Truth
That night, at the wedding in Chacabuco, the table stretched long under the warm glow of hanging lights.
Plates of grilled meats.
Fresh bread.
Bottles of wine passed from hand to hand.
It was the kind of table where conversations run late, glasses never stay empty, and time slows just enough to remind you what matters.
My belt did its job. It held my pants up.
And as long as I don’t let too many good meals get the better of me, it’ll be with me for years.
Some things stay with you.
A well-made belt.
A great meal.
A night at a long table with good friends.
I hope the wines from our latest Argentine collection do the same—that they’re not just bottles, but part of something bigger. A moment. A memory. Something worth savoring.
Some of you have already started sharing photos—pairings, tables filled with food and wine, moments worth holding onto.
That’s where wine belongs.
At a long table.
Surrounded by people who know how to enjoy it.
And yet—these bottles don’t carry three-figure price tags.
They’re underpriced for what they are.
Because real value isn’t about cost.
It’s about what lasts.
If you’ve already received your bottles, I’d love to see what you’re pairing them with. Send your photos my way.
Until next time,
Diego
