Frank Cornelissen farms Etna's black volcanic soil like a true believer — no sulfur, no filtration, grapes crushed by foot and left mostly alone. What comes out is reductive and a little feral at first pour, all crushed stone and bruised plum, then it opens into something smoky and mineral and strange. It smells like a struck match held over wet ash. Drink it decanted, with people who don't mind a wine that argues back.
Matched to the wine's region, weight, and weather — not the other way around.
Untamed and a little dangerous under its classical fruit — the wine for a ritual nobody's willing to explain afterward.
Volatile and unresolved, changing in the glass the way Theo keeps changing his own story.
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