I was not much more than a shack, where the oil froze in winter and the fans buzzed in summer. I keep with me sweet memories of that time, which date back to many, many years ago. I carry the grape harvests in my heart, because in those days the local women brightened me up from morning to night, with the stove on for hours, the good oil of this land sizzled in the pans in which the spices gave off their perfumes. And then the gestures, those gestures of

old Tuscans, like the way of the peasants to cut the bread… they leaned the loaf on the chest, holding it firm with one hand and, with the other they cut large slices without touching the table.

These gestures as fascinating and unconscious at the same time, these gestures are like an entire tale. Gestures that are disappearing. The children, cheerful and boisterous, played tirelessly while the mothers reproached them with that brusque and affectionate manner that comes straight from the heart. And then the cheerful tables, full of anecdotes and good food, and then back to work again, under the still warm September sun with the smell of ripe grapes that permeated the countryside between one row and another. They are rich, my memories, and sweet. I hold them close to me, me and those here who have grown up between these walls and among these trees. We quietly observe the time passing by, we lovely observe this place that changes, perhaps in the people who frequent it but not in the atmosphere that permeates it.

It is made of respect for Nature, for Beauty and for Good Living.

Thus, I seem to have changed in my appearance, but I remain the same.

I am the
House of Flavors.