Songs of Stone and Vine: Pingus 2015

The first pour shimmers like twilight sinking into a riverbed—deep garnet, a core so dark it seems to swallow the light. I lift the bowl of the glass, broad and tulip-shaped, and breathe. The wine yields slowly, reluctant as a sealed tablet cracked open for the first time. It needs an hour’s breath in the decanter, cool at 16–18 °C, before it begins to sing. Then violets rise, graphite whispers, blackberry skin and wild herbs unfurl, a chorus carried on cedar and dust. This is no fleeting echo—it is the kind of voice that lingers, weaving itself into memory.

Rooted in Ribera’s Silence

From Ribera del Duero in Spain, Pingus speaks through ancient Tempranillo vines, some more than a century old, clawing into sandy clay and limestone. Peter Sisseck, a Dane who once dreamed among Bordeaux barrels, planted his flag here in the mid-1990s and in doing so created a cult legend. The 2015 vintage, blessed with luminous days and cool, star-struck nights, gave berries of concentration and poise—small orbs of intensity shaped by extremes. Out of this paradox came balance, a wine that carries both the fire of sun and the hush of altitude.

A Vintage with Gravitas

The nose is solemn yet seductive: cassis and black plum braided with rosemary and fennel seed, the faint smoke of river stones warmed by the sun. On the tongue, the tannins—those silken yet insistent grips left by the grape’s skin—sculpt the fruit into form. Acidity, a bright thread of freshness, holds it upright like the reed in my brother’s dream. Oak rests in the background, offering a faint dusting of spice. The finish trails long, earth-toned and floral, reminding us this wine is meant to endure until 2035 and beyond, gathering shadows and velvet as the years accrue.

Flesh of the Fire, Blood of the Vine

There is poetry in Pingus’s bond with fire-kissed meats. Imagine Segovian suckling pig, its crisp crackling yielding fat that dissolves the wine’s grip, while its sweetness speaks to the wine’s dark berry soul. Or consider venison loin roasted with juniper—the iron tang and resinous herb bring forward Pingus’s mineral backbone, a marriage of forest and flame. These are not simply meals, but offerings: meat laid upon the altar of stone and vine.

When the Exotic Answers

Pingus 2015 does not shrink from faraway spice. Braised oxtail with star anise and orange peel finds its echo in the wine’s own bittersweet undertone, the tannins binding to the gelatinous richness with grace. Moroccan lamb tagine with prunes and almonds speaks in a parallel dialect—the wine’s cassis notes intertwine with the prunes, while its structure balances the sweetness and spice. This is the dance of continents: Ribera’s voice meeting saffron, cinnamon, and dried fruit, each note amplified rather than obscured.

Earth-Born Pairings for a Goddess of the Vine

When I descend each year to the underworld, I return with the memory of soil, of roots searching in silence. It is there I taste kinship with dishes like black truffle shaved over handmade pappardelle, the truffle’s musk amplifying Pingus’s savory depth. Or roasted beetroot with walnut cream, where sweetness and earth converse with the wine’s mineral spine. These are vegetarian luxuries, not substitutions—they are equal partners, drawing the vine’s voice into dialogue with the garden.

The Secret Companions

Sometimes the quietest offerings sing the loudest. Consider cecina, Spain’s air-dried beef, thinly sliced: its concentrated savor resonates with Pingus’s dark-fruited austerity. Or morcilla, the blood sausage rich with spice, its texture softening the tannins while its depth harmonizes with the wine’s subterranean echo. End not with sugar, but with raw sheep’s milk cheese aged to nutty sharpness—Manchego viejo, its salt and fat a final counterpoint, leaving the wine’s finish unbroken.

In My Ledger of Seasons

I am Geshtinanna, the scribe of both vine and dream. I have recorded countless harvests, each a brief stanza in the song of earth and sky. Pingus 2015 deserves to be remembered as more than a vintage—it is a hymn of Ribera, a chalice that asks for patience, silence, and reverence. Drink it now for its vivid tension, or wait until 2030–2038 for its shadowed wisdom. Let it live with your table, as I live between worlds—returning always, bearing the stories written in stone and vine.