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He strides confidently, polished as pomegranate juice flowing through the Manhattan-soaked soiree, the full purple plum crowd parting around him as if in a ship’s agua de jamaica wake; watermelon washed rosemary on a juniper berry journey through polite society, a smile to the left, a handshake to the right, never pausing longer than absolutely necessary. Oh, such a deep, dapper jade is his attire, so caliginous it is nearly black, like a bear’s coat of Tahitian pearl offset by the not-so-subtle red jalapeño of his lapel pin, his only nod to adornment. Rather than fade into obsidian obscurity, the silky Manoa chocolate of his erudite eyes and apple blossom aplomb with which he holds himself draws attention, and intrigue, like tomato leaf moths to a flame. Who is this mysterious man who deigns turn up his nose at the acai charred cedar grilled octopus, the duck yaki tori liberally brushed in traditional tare sauce, the beef tartare mixed with cornichon, pickled radishes lying down as a bed with fresh slivers scattered liberally atop, and finished with a wholly unbroken quail egg yolk, of course? Adding even more intrigue, he politely refuses to linger, and like a delicious Luxardo cherry fished from the dregs of his drink, consumed in a mere moment between perfectly pristine teeth, he bounds into his waiting carriage, off to his passion and his pride; a nondescript cobblestone alley awaits, wherein hides a traditional taberna de España, flowing liberally with wine, jamón serrano, and most importantly, love, life and friends.

notes by clay selkirk, winemaker and all-around cowboy