I found myself in Paris this past week, lost in the labyrinth of VinExpo.
From Monday to Wednesday, I wandered the cavernous halls, tasting my way through the world—France to Italy, Georgia to California, the familiar to the esoteric. By day’s end, my palate was shot, my mind buzzing with tannins and terroirs.
Then Friday arrived, and with it, Valentine’s Day.
Had I forgotten?
Or was I resisting the ritual? The grand gestures, the prescribed expectations—roses, chocolates, prix-fixe menus—it all felt a little like a mass-market Cabernet, polished to perfection but missing the soul.
By Thursday night, that creeping worry set in:
Had I done enough?
Had I done anything?
The world tells us love requires performance. But what if true love is something quieter, something less scripted?
Meanwhile, all across the City of Love, the Valentine’s machine roars to life.
Florists scramble to restock. Restaurants squeeze in last-minute reservations. Ads whisper that true love can be measured in carats.
It reminds me of certain wines I’ve tasted—slick, over-engineered, designed for immediate appeal but leaving no lasting impression.
This week, both love and wine risked becoming mere transactions—packaged, polished, stripped of their essence.
Just like mass-market love, we don’t want mass-market wines.
At VinExpo, you witness the tension between tradition and modernity, authenticity and mass production.
More than just a tasting event, this is where relationships are built. We meet the winemakers, the artisans, the rebels….
Much like Saint Valentine himself.
He was a rebel, a troublemaker of the heart. He defied an emperor’s decree, marrying lovers in secret, believing in the sanctity of connection over the rigidity of law. The kind of person who understands that love, like a well-made wine, needs a special occasion and two people ready to savor it.
The Church eventually demoted his feast day, suspicious of its pagan roots. And yet here we are, centuries later, still celebrating love in his name, but in a way that often feels dictated rather than spontaneous.
Who decided that love must be performed in a particular way?
That a bouquet equates devotion, or that a box of chocolates means more than a home-cooked meal?
That a bottle of wine must be expensive to be meaningful?
The best wines, like the best expressions of love, are personal. Chosen with care, not obligation. Sometimes they surprise you—a rustic malbec that lingers on the palate, a chardonnay from Austria that tastes like a whispered promise. And sometimes, they are simple but deeply satisfying.
So to my Valentine, who will probably read this before dinner tonight—I’m cooking.
A slow-cooked, shredded beef ragu pasta. The kind that simmers for hours, filling the air with the rich aroma of tomatoes, red wine, and herbs. The kind of dish that even the neighbors can smell, hinting at something special happening behind closed doors.
Fresh pasta to soak up every bit of the sauce—a meal made with patience, much like love itself.
No fanfare. No stiff reservation times.
Just us, a bottle of something honest, something with character. Maybe that bottle we’ve been saving, or maybe the one we always thought was out of budget (as much as I loathe an overpriced, overengineered wine, I’m certainly not against paying for something special). Some might call it heresy, but after days of swirling, spitting, and dissecting wine, I’m convinced:
The best experiences—of both love and wine—are unhurried, unpretentious, and unforced.
And for anyone feeling lonely today, here’s the truth:
It’s better to be at peace with yourself than caught in a performance with the wrong person.
The right wine, like the right love, comes along when you’re ready to appreciate it.
So here’s my nudge: let this Valentine’s Day be an excuse to pause.
Step away from the noise—phones buzzing, emails dinging—and truly connect.
Cook a meal. Open a bottle that intrigues you. Toast the people who matter.
And if you need wine for that occasion, we have plenty here.
Love, like wine, is an ongoing exploration, best savored in its own time, without anyone imposing how it should taste.
Just as wine reveals its character over time, so too does love—evolving through shared moments and quiet understanding.
The true value of love, like wine, isn’t in grand displays but in the everyday moments—genuine, unforced, and deeply felt.
Because the real gift isn’t the roses or the chocolates—it’s the thought behind them.
The care. The intention. The quiet moments when you truly see and are seen.
That’s where the magic is—the kind that lingers long after the last sip of wine is gone.
The moment you say, “I thought about you, and I appreciate who you are.”
And that, my friends, is worth more than any grand gesture or expensive bottle ever could be.
Cheers.
Diego Samper
