The Inspiration
Every wine we make carries a passport: Umbrian roots, a Virginia raising, and a Brooklyn address.
The old country
The roots. Terni, Umbria — where wine is not a hobby but a standing assumption, poured before anyone asks. The hills taught us that good things come from steep ground and long patience, and that a meal without a bottle is just eating.
The raising
The manners. Jetersville, Virginia — front porches, red clay, and a yard full of animals with no respect for property lines. Virginia taught us hospitality, patience, and exactly which creatures will get into the crush bins if you look away.
The making
The cellar. Bay Ridge, Brooklyn — where every vintage is actually made, two floors above the family table, within earshot of the R train. The borough taught us to make the most of every square foot, including the ones that now hold carboys.
“You can take the boy out of Umbria, raise him in Virginia, and hand him a carboy in Brooklyn. Apparently.” — The Winemaker