L'Ànima del vi

My bill ran far past the plan, which had been one glass and home. It was a wet March evening in Ciutat Vella, coats steaming by the door, and the list kept doing what the best natural lists do: leading me somewhere I hadn't thought to go. There's no reserving a table here; you turn up, you wait if the little room is full, and the waiting becomes part of the evening. Every bottle reads as though someone believes in the maker behind it, and each pour comes with a story told briefly and well. I return every few months, always intending to stay an hour, never once managing it. Come with time rather than an agenda. A list with this much heart repays an unhurried night, and the rain outside only made leaving harder.