Pa, this wine talk reminds me of the jackfruit that falls in our backyard — everyone fights over the ripe ones, nobody bothers with the raw. You can’t judge a bottle by the label any more than you can judge a sambar by its colour; I’ve seen fancy wines that taste like burnt rubber and a five-hundred-rupee bottle from a roadside shop that could make a lorry driver cry with joy. Same with the Etna rossi — they talk about volcanic soil like it’s magic, but I trust the old man who stomps the grapes barefoot and sells them to the next village, not the one with a glossy website. Let the government fix the roads first, then we’ll talk about terroir.