"What kind of wine do you drink? I am guessing Moscato?" the host asked me knowingly.
I nodded sheepishly.
Two wines in and she had already got me.
I do not remember the next few because my wine threshold was expended after the first drink, but I do remember our host was filled with a myriad of entertaining anecdotes to accompany each tasting. I was particularly amused by the 'Headstone' rose named such as the owner infamously told his wife he would make a rose only 'over his dead body.'
At the start of the reds, I decided to bail on the tasting and take my sparkling rose outside. It was a crisp, spring day and I happily took in the sun and the spectacular view of rolling grape vines and mountains while my fellow wine-drinking compatriots carried on in the cellar. As a bonus, I was even visited by the owner's friendly dog who calls upon the patrons in the hope of free food.
When the others were done with the tasting we ordered the regional tasting platter (a smorgasbord of small eats complete with a knife stabbed into the loaf of bread), settled into one of the larger tables and spent the next few hazy hours filled with food, wine and company.