I drive the back roads of Burgundy, Bordeaux, Piedmont and Tuscany. I sit in cellars that smell of damp stone and old oak. I taste from the barrel before the wine knows what it will become. I listen to the grandfather who planted the vines, the daughter who reads the weather better than any forecast, the son who fought his father over when to pick.

These are not transactions. They are working relationships measured in vintages.

My job is simple. I carry these wines across an ocean and place them on your list. Sixty-five growers over twelve regions. Allocations by hand. No public sales.

I will not carry a wine I have not stood next to in the cellar where it was made. I will not list a vintage I have not tasted.

Until we meet across a glass.