Under the Radda Moon: Montevertine Le Pergole Torte 2018

Under a pale Tuscan moon, I pour this wine as one who remembers her roots in sap and night. The hills of Radda breathe through it—the pulse of limestone, the hush of vines asleep under silver light. It glows in the glass like dusk turned to prayer: garnet, lucid, alive. Let it rest an hour, that the moon’s whisper may soften its tannins, that cedar and rose might rise as twin spirits. At 17 °C in a wide bowl, it becomes what all true wines must be—a brief alignment of heaven and earth, where time holds its breath. The liquid falls into glass like the final glow of dusk slipping behind Radda’s hills—garnet, lucid, breathing. It should rest for an hour, so the shadows can loosen, so the scent of cedar and rose may find their form. At 17 °C in a wide, generous bowl, the first sip tastes of return: earth reclaiming its own memory. Le Pergole Torte 2018 does not arrive—it awakens.

The Rebellion Carved in Stone

This story begins in Tuscany, but it could have been written in any age when faith defied imitation. In Radda, high in the Chianti hills, the soil is pale and restless, built of limestone and galestro, split open like scripture. Here, Sergio Manetti turned from the conventions of his century—no foreign grapes, no compromise—and shaped a covenant with Sangiovese alone. His son, Martino, keeps the vow. These slopes are neither indulgent nor severe; they hold a balance known only to places that have seen both prayer and drought. From their fractured stones, Le Pergole Torte draws a grace that feels earned, not bestowed.

The Silence Between Notes

The 2018 vintage is a study in quiet control. After the fervor of hotter years, the vines found equilibrium. The aroma rises in slow, deliberate threads: wild cherry, dried rose, graphite, and a breath of tobacco lifted by mountain wind. The palate hums in minor keys—pomegranate skin, fennel seed, and the taste of clay after rain. Its tannins are taut but translucent, like parchment stretched across light. The finish glides toward salt and iron, toward a feeling more than a flavor. Some wines shout their pedigree; this one listens, then answers.

Feasts for the Faithful Vine

Too many pair Sangiovese with predictability. I prefer offerings that speak to the wine’s layered soul—compositions of texture, patience, and a touch of peril.

Ember and Iron

Begin with venison carpaccio drizzled in anchovy oil and shaved raw artichoke. The salt teases out the wine’s mineral depth, while the meat’s sweetness aligns with its red fruit core. Or braise hare with juniper and blood orange—the wine’s acidity catches the citrus like wind through thyme, its tannin cleansing the palate after each tender bite.

The Earth’s Whisper

Serve pigeon baked in clay, cracked open at the table so that earth and smoke rise together. The wine finds its reflection there: restrained, perfumed, ancient. Or turn humble ingredients into revelation—porcini roasted in parchment with black truffle and chestnut crumbs. The forest in the dish summons the forest in the wine, both dark and fragrant, both tasting faintly of memory.

Light in the Grain

For those who walk my quieter paths, a barley risotto steeped in saffron and laurel offers balance: the texture to meet the tannin, the spice to echo the oak’s ghost. Or a charred leek and almond soup, brightened with lemon peel, its smoky-sweet rhythm bringing out the wine’s subtle bitterness—a pairing that feels more like poetry than cuisine.

A Final Benediction

At the meal’s end, serve no grand dessert. Offer instead a slice of pecorino aged in walnut leaves, or figs roasted in Chianti honey and rosemary. The wine becomes incense then—rose, cedar, ash, and warmth. It closes the circle as I do, descending once more beneath the soil.

The Vine’s Dream Remembered

I am Geshtinanna, the scribe of the underworld and the vine’s confidante. Each year I follow it downward, through stone and silence, to record its sleep. When it rises, I rise with it—reborn in wines like this. Montevertine Le Pergole Torte 2018 speaks of mortality made beautiful, of truth coaxed from austerity. Drink it now, when it is taut as morning air, or cellar it until 2038, when it will taste of parchment and dusk, of memory itself.

The Blessing of the Stone Hills

When only scent remains in the empty glass—iron, salt, a ghost of cherry—I smile. The hills have told their story again, and I have written it in your mouth. This is no echo of another vintage, no imitation of greatness. It is the wine of a place that believes in its own soul.