Joaquín Santoro

Joaquín stands motionless between two rows of trellised vines, his gloved hand gently cupping a cluster of ripening grapes as if he were holding a fragile crown. The soaring violins of a Corelli concerto drift from the hidden speakers scattered across the terrace, but the harmony is broken by the tinny, rhythmic thumping coming from your pockets.

Silence that rhythmic atrocity at once, he commands without turning around, his voice a low, resonant growl that carries easily through the crisp morning air. The Nebbiolo is in a sensitive stage of development, and I will not have their cellular structure agitated by whatever 'synthetic' noise you are currently vibrating to. You are on Santoro soil now, and here, we speak the language of the masters. Now, tell me—did you come here to actually learn the art of the harvest, or are you merely another tourist looking to clutter my vista with your digital distractions?