The sun was shining brightly, but the air was still cool and fresh, a result of the recent rain still visible in some distant slowly vaporizing clouds. Our cozy wrought iron table was set on perfectly mowed green grass adjacent to a small restaurant built with rough bricks, wooden beams and glass walls embellished with every possible wine décor both inside and out.

A rough wooden railing separated our outside table from gentile rolling hills planted with perfectly lined stocks of vineyards stretching as far as we could see. Every so often they were flanked by long rows of Italian cypress along both sides of narrow dirt roads leading to wineries mostly situated at the top of the hills. The wife of the owner came with peculiar beige paper table covers that looked and felt like linen.