Nabucco di Monte delle Vigne: A Symphony.

It's an I.G.T. Emilia, trained on simple Guyot, a Rosso dei Colli di Parma "set to music" in the village of Ozzano Taro.

The name is the first thing that catches your attention. Resounding. Heavy. Haughty. It almost inspires a kind of awe in the desire to reach that sip capable of unveiling its every secret, leaving you tangled and impatient in the inconsistency of your own thoughts. NABUCCO. A name that is difficult to carry, drunk on emphasis, one that could poorly conceal an impending embarrassment lurking right around the corner.

The label – I studied it at home, days and days later, at leisure, examining it from every angle. You might say "black soul on a white heart," in the eternal dilemma between Good and Evil, a singular duel between opposites that attract; but that would be like probing a hazy boundary whose solution I could only glimpse after a few brimming glasses and a generous supply of aspirin.

The encounter-clash, here, in this Nabucco, is between two noble varieties, Barbera and Merlot. They meet and fall for each other – at first a little shy, then without inhibition. It is the female who does the courting (and yes, Barbera is a woman, and I find the debate intriguing; alas, discussing the gender of wines is much the same as arguing, no more and no less, about that of angels). 70% "Lady Barbera," 30% "Lord Merlot." You can taste the balance between the two. A romantic encounter or a bacchanal? The doubt remains, and so be it. Each person will find their own desire in it.

Hand-harvested with cluster selection – a choice that reveals the ambition to squeeze the best from every berry. Slow, phlegmatic fermentation. 40 days of maceration on the skins, to accumulate extracts. Cradled for 12 months in Allier oak barriques – a French département nestled between the valley carved by the Loire and the no-longer-jagged peaks of the Massif Central – to smooth the tannins, to let them grow intimate with one another and lend the wine a gentle touch. Bottled without filtration, with a year of further refinement once sealed in its glass coat.

Let's do this properly – let's go back. The time machine for this journey will be our own memory.

REWIND.

I am at "Parma Taste of Future," the Media Room of "SQcuola di Blog" (spelled exactly like that, with the odd "scu"), a food and wine event that puts on display – and into one's waistcoat – the finest expressions of a territory, tradition living in the present day.

I lose myself in the pleasant frivolity of a few whites and a Champagne Rosé, still sweating ice and Belle Époque. I am not satisfied. Something is missing – a blow to the heart, a red of another era, a real red. And there it is, right in front of me. I had already spotted it, passing by several times while waiting for the right moment. The color is dark, intense, almost impenetrable. For just a moment I hold it up to the light from the window to reveal its hue, the shade it wears. A vivid, deep ruby red. A purple reflection. A leaden acquiescence. And between one glance and the next, a violet shimmer glints within it – a shimmer of silk and sensuality.

Something dense seizes the palate, a meeting between the sweetness of the words of the person beside me and the air drifting in from outside. Warm, it insinuates itself into the conversation, between things said and unsaid and thoughts that remain hidden within us. The red waves wash over my lips as if caressing them – almost a kiss. A sigh. I want to speak of it in hindsight. Not now, not yet.

We are in an old palazzo in the city center, dressed up for the occasion to welcome and shelter those who know what they are looking for. On show are wineries that are part of – I'll say it all in one breath – the "Consorzio per la tutela dei vini dei Colli di Parma" – with the exception, of course, of the French guests.

And freshness is to be found in the wine, in the gestures, in the way we look around. In the moment, the light and sparkling taste of a few glasses of Malvasia takes over – cold relief from the summer heat, clouding not only the mind but also one's judgment. It is a shame that the Nabucco is at room temperature (which in most cases would be perfectly fine, but not today), and these ancient walls do nothing to preserve its character, unable as they are to temper its excessive warming.

I should follow a logical approach. "Rule Number One" from the Manual of the Perfect Taster (or thereabouts): do not let yourself be influenced by external factors. The only problem: when the "external factors" are people, it is not at all easy... To hell with it! I cannot separate these aspects... They clash with the very meaning of the exchange of emotion that a toast carries within it.

Culatello di Zibello, Coppa di Parma, Salame Felino – not a bad accompaniment. I had the chance, in these rooms, to sample every manner of culinary caprice, but I have already lost my train of thought... I was mulling over the smoked salmon I had tasted just moments before, served in small boats of thin wood; how much I would have liked to pair it with a nice Frappato, one of the kind I have in mind (but that is another story).

Let's smell it, then...

Captivating! With broad, generous sensations. What can I say – intense and powerful, on notes of red fruit, dark, very dark, perhaps riper still. Undergrowth, pulp and jam. Violets and liquorice and spices, so many spices. Cloves and black pepper, a distant whisper of ginger, and something slightly vague – like a hint of incense. And cinnamon and juniper berries and flashes, little pinches, redolent of bitter cocoa that blend and merge with those of coffee and tobacco. (Goodness, how many things I find in here – have I perhaps overdone it with the alcohol fumes? Oh, to hell with it! Wine is not to be tasted, it is to be drunk.)

Measured and slow, limpid lacrimation. Unruly legs that thicken like the weave of a damask. Youthful on the palate, vibrant – this is a stubborn wine, with a persistent aroma, a pleasant persistence. Great personality, rich extraction. Soft tannins, still unformed, almost drops of satin. An enveloping, balanced structure. Long and elegant finish, a trailing softness and roundness that slips away when you least expect it, with the Merlot dimming and rekindling the impetus of the Barbera, which finally, spent from the embrace, surrenders itself to us.

Price: under 20 Euros, or occasionally a few more. Serving temperature: 16–18°C.

I want the Nabucco fresh – and I mean fresh, not cold. Refreshed. To give you a clear idea. A toast in the sun will soon bring it up to speed, but the first sips will be carefree escapism. Before drinking it, just a quarter of an hour in the fridge.

Reservations about the verdict? There could be. I promise to taste it again as soon as possible, free from distractions.

RESET.

A few days have passed. Memory forces me back in time. To that hour, that instant. Clear-headed now? I couldn't say. It doesn't matter, in any case.

You make memories with this wine – precious and rare ones. And you meet each other's gaze, as you did then, even if only in the mind. And you see again the faces of those who toasted with you... «O membranza sì cara». And when you hear "Nabucco" mentioned, you think of the wine by now, and no longer of Verdi's opera. Secretly a bottle, to bring to the theatre. Two glasses. Cin Cin. And the Traviata. I'd like to say Bohème, but such a pairing seems rather audacious.

NABUCCO. An ode to Verdi's ego, or to that of whoever takes his place?
The wine from Monte delle Vigne channels the full character of an army at the city gates, newly arrived, compelling surrender. And let it be a siege! Yes to being taken hostage. Every drop a note torn from Verdi's score – musicality on the palate.

Food pairing? Ideal with red meats, braised dishes and roasts – but we have no interest in trite escamotages. I want something more refined, an unusual distraction, with the elegance of a Teatro Regio. Hmm. I'm saving the porcini mushrooms for winter. Parmigiano Reggiano? Perfect! But I reject it... Too obvious!

I think of a courtly kitchen, from ancient times, beneath the walls of a castle or a slightly faded, crumbling manor. The clash of weapons and armour, the light rustle of a courtesan's veil and a great brimming goblet, in wood or soapstone. Lit torches, a harp in the background, or some monk who – merry and tipsy – laughs and sings to himself, and a table arranged in a circle so that all can see one another, with a wild boar of Erymanthus or Calydon on a platter in the centre.

The Indecent Proposal. Late in the evening, when the wind blows and breathes in a mood for tenderness, outdoors watching the sky... alone or in company... Rough-cut spaghetti on a cream of pecorino and black pepper, and crispy bread adorned with freshly picked aromatic herbs, to be crumbled over the pasta.

In the sauce I added a sprig of Rosmarino made gentle by the sea breeze – the fringe of a dense bush shaped by the moods and whims of the night, at the mercy of the waves that feed upon waves. It sprouted from the sand just a few steps from the water, like a silent rattle, the dissolution of a pale green and the story of the night that chases the day and can meet it for only a few instants. Stories of infatuation that happen at the tiny suture point between the shore and the stars.

Its fragrance washes over me with nostalgia for a full moon that is about to end. And what remains is a thought with a fragile and courteous soul that, intoxicating, delights my senses. I inhale and savour the full perfume of summer and the substance of the Nabucco.

Black Soul Without Shame... In the elegance of a sip that becomes a Symphony.