Paris, France
It snowed in Paris this week. Not much, but snow’s so rare here it’s always an exciting moment.
The flakes were soft, fleeting, almost shy. The kind of snow that doesn’t stay, but it was enough to stir something in me. A craving. For warmth. For something hearty. Something with weight.
A stew. A bolognese pasta. The sort of meal that fills the room with aromas that make you feel safe — maybe reminding you of a place you know. I found myself longing for a glass of Tacana — our own bold red from the heights of Salta. Why Tacana? I don’t know. It was instinctive, like the body answering a question I didn’t know I was asking.
There’s a comfort in it. A bond. Tacana is like my first love — a little rebellious, a little wild, but it always feels like home. Maybe that’s what we look for in wine, anyway: a connection that grounds us, or even transports us.
And then there’s the smell.
Snow has its own scent. Crisp. Clean. Quiet. But it doesn’t last. Before long, I found myself chasing another smell — the smoky sweetness of hot chestnuts roasting on a street corner. That aroma clings to Paris in winter like an old friend. A bit of cigarette smoke does too, which somehow feels right here.
I was braving the cold to meet some friends for a kind of “Friendsgiving without food.” Paris apartments, you see, are more suited for one person and a cat than 12 friends and a feast. So, we improvised. The idea was simple: to share, to bring something to the table. Perhaps predictably, we all brought wines. Easy enough here in France, where even a casual bottle feels like it carries a story.
But not all wines are equal. Some are over-engineered, designed to appeal to everyone and impress no one. French wines, at their best, steer clear of that trap — they let the grapes and the land speak for themselves. Still, there was one bottle in the mix that fell flat. It felt like fast food: nothing memorable, but easy to drink. By the end of the night, the weaker wines made the good ones stand out even more. They reminded me of how much a wine can bring — or fail to bring — to the table.
It’s like having a guest at the table who doesn’t talk. I’m not talking about someone who’s shy — shyness can be endearing. I mean the kind of guest who contributes nothing. No stories. No laughs. Just a warm body.
A bland wine is the same. It’s there, but it adds nothing to the experience. After a good wine, it feels hollow, weak, and even a little sad. It’s a reminder that what’s in your glass can make or break the moment.
And with Thanksgiving just around the corner, it’s worth thinking about what we bring to the table. A holiday built around gathering and sharing deserves wines that bring warmth, spark conversations, and linger in memory long after the last sip.
When I work on sourcing wines for our collections, this is always on my mind. Our wines aren’t made to blend in; they’re made to stand out. Like a great guest, they come with their own stories, quirks, and just enough boldness to keep things interesting.
Parisian snow is fleeting. By the time you read this, it will probably be gone. But its memory lingers — in the taste of Tacana, the smell of chestnuts, and the laughter of friends on a cold night.
Here’s to moments like that. To good wine and good conversations. And to never being the bland guest at the table.
Until next time,
Diego
