Paris, France
In the heart of Paris, where every other kiss I witness makes me wonder if I’m glimpsing a passionate love affair, I found myself in a tiny store near my apartment. It’s one of those places you walk by a hundred times, always too busy or not quite in the mood to step inside. But on this day, fate had other plans.
I pushed open the door. Its owner was a man of imposing construction, his frame filling the narrow space between racks. His strong hands could have easily belonged to a seasoned fisherman, testament to years of honest labor — a character straight out of a Hemingway novel. He greeted me with unexpected warmth.
“Ah, La Font!” he exclaimed, noticing my workman’s jacket, “The oldest brand in France, still making clothes.” A man who knows his history.
This wasn’t just any 2nd hand store. Upstairs, a treasure trove of vintage working-class clothes awaited, each piece with its own story to tell. But the real magic happened when I shared a photo I’d taken months ago — a candid shot of him on the street.
Pure chance. The coincidence delighted him, forging an instant bond. My jacket, his store, my photograph — the universe’s conspiracy unveiled.
The jacket that had immediately piqued his interest found me two years ago on a bitingly cold day. I had ducked into a vintage shop, seeking warmth and curiosities. There it was: sturdy, unique, with a metal badge that caught my eye. Its solid construction spoke of quality. I bought it on impulse, drawn to its craftsmanship. Little did I know where this purchase would lead.
Back here in the present day, Emmanuel, my new friend the shopkeeper, began to unfold the jacket’s history: it was a railroad worker’s uniform, he explained, distinguished by a metal tag bearing its original owner’s initials. Every detail whispered of a bygone era. It spoke of clothes made to last, of years of hard work. That small metal tag, easily missed, held worlds of meaning. It was a testament to pride, to identity. Through Emmanuel’s words, I saw a France of unsung heroes. Blue-collar workers, the backbone of a nation.
As I left Emmanuel’s shop, I couldn’t help but reflect on how this experience mirrored my approach to wine. Both realms — vintage clothes and fine wines — are rich with nuance. It’s the overlooked details that often hold the most profound stories.
Today, we’re inundated with curated consumption. See a wine in a movie? Instantly, your newsfeed tells you what to drink and where to buy it. It’s marketing, void of discovery. But I believe many of you, like me, appreciate something more. The value of being present. The joy of savoring moments. The pleasure of forming our own opinions based on personal experience rather than following the crowd.
Appreciation for the small things, and attention to detail, are what makes life an adventure. It was only through traveling that I started discerning a truly great olive oil from a mediocre one (the world of olive oil is just as rich & complex as that of wine, I’m learning), or recognizing the complexity in an aged balsamic vinegar. These experiences, these moments of discovery, are what enrich our palates and our lives.
This, friends, is what our wine club is about. We bring you wines that speak to us, wines with stories. Sometimes, like in any search, we might find something not to everyone’s taste. But that’s the adventure. We don’t aim for flashy marketing or inflated scores. We choose wines we like, priced right, offering you a unique experience.
In a world of quantity over quality, of speed over patience, of trends over tradition, we choose differently. We notice the metal tag on a jacket. We appreciate the story behind each wine, each bottle of olive oil, each drop of balsamic vinegar.
So here’s to the details, friends. May we always seek them out. May we have the wisdom to appreciate them. May we have joy in sharing them. Here’s to story-laden jackets that lead us to unexpected discoveries, and to wines that capture moments in time. Here’s to you, the curious ones.
You understand that true luxury isn’t trendy. It’s timeless.
Santé!
Diego
