Austere and tannic with old-fashioned manners, a claret for the Castevets' dinner table. It tightens on the palate the way the Bramford closes in around Rosemary.
Peppery, smoky and faintly animal, with a darkness that sneaks up after the first sip. A good fit for a book where something is always wrong beneath the pleasantries.
A young wife's pregnancy curdles into paranoia inside a handsome Manhattan building full of too-friendly neighbors. Levin builds the dread in small domestic details until the ordinary becomes unbearable.
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