You don’t skip dinners with Francesco Marone Cinzano, the Count. That would be like turning down a summons from God—unwise at best, and vaguely illegal in this part of Tuscany. Even if you’ve already sat at his table, swirled the verticals, and politely admired the view, you go again and again. Because Francesco doesn’t just host, he vanishes into the cellar and reappears with a dozen ghosts in bottles—some so old they predate your palate. He greets you like a friend, pours like a priest, and reminds you—without ever saying so—that certain evenings are about more than just what’s in the glass.

The real reason to show up, though, is the chance to quietly patch up the holes in your own character. Around him, you start to sit straighter, stop clowning around, and vaguely begin to consider becoming a better person.

Francesco’s wife—Marcella Marone Pittaluga—is no mere background figure. She’s fierce, fully embedded in the wine world, and not just there to watch over her husband. A professional photographer by trade, she’ll eye you with skepticism at first, but if you manage to say something not entirely idiotic, she’ll join the conversation—and maybe even laugh at a good joke. Turns out, she’s “interested in everything”—from training dogs for the Italian army (yes, really) to mass-communication strategies for wine marketing. She listens with sharp curiosity, and ends every thoughtful exchange with a firm: “If you manage to pull it off, report back.” Between her and Francesco, you get the sense that she’s the tactician and critical thinker. While he muses on the lofty and casually introduces the vintages, she’s scanning the room, processing, evaluating. In short: relaxing at her table isn’t really an option. It’s sink or swim.

The oldest Col d’Orcia vintage that’s ever brushed my non-existent moustache was a 1968. Considering I’m not a sommelier and rarely stumble into wines of that age, that alone felt like a small miracle. One of the remarkable traits of Col d’Orcia’s stellar Sangioveses is their stamina—what folk wisdom would call long life. No matter how much time you throw at them, no matter what brutal weather they endure, they somehow pull through. Sure, that’s a rose-tinted view, and what goes on behind the scenes is likely more complex—but we don’t come here to dissect the wine into scores and falvours. We come here to forget ourselves a little, and look in on the Count’s life.

Why didn’t Brunello di Montalcino follow Barolo’s footsteps in creating subzones and toying with micro-terroir maps? It just didn’t happen. And by now, it probably won’t. To be honest, you don’t need any of that to enjoy great wine. You don’t need technical knowledge at all, really. Forget the terroir, forget the barrel toasts—let’s not kid ourselves. Knowing those things won’t unlock “mysteries” of wines, won’t give recipes. At best, it might reveal some common truths, like: gentle oak is better than harsh oak, and a well-managed triage is better than no triage at all. But how any of that could enhance your pleasure is beyond me.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize that if you want to treat your guests to verticals the way Count Marone Cinzano does, one needs some serious generosity—and a well-stocked cellar of 100% Sangiovese to back it up. Cinzano claims that around 50,000 bottles are quietly aging in the depths of his estate, waiting for just the right winter evening to get cracked open.

Cinzanos were not always here—the family once behind the world-famous vermouth—bought the Tuscan estate Col d’Orcia in 1973. The previous owners named the estate after the local landscape: it’s the “hill above the river Orcia.” Since then, it’s grown into one of the largest landowners in Montalcino. Around 108 hectares are planted with Sangiovese for Brunello, and another 32 for other wines.

I’ve tasted these wines through three different dinners at Col d’Orcia winery, and every year Count Cinzano rolled out neat verticals ending with the number of the year we were in. Combined, the experience is immense and unforgettable: cozy and friendly. Especially because the Count brings out the library bottles like no one else. He tells you to finish your glass. And so you do.

2010 Rosso di Montalcino

“Baby Brunello” throws a playful kick across the palate—flirting with perfumed aromas, cherry orchard daydreams, and the vague possibility of a romantic accident. It flashes like a swallowtail butterfly—bold, elegant, and entirely free of melodrama. A wine that struts without screaming.

2009 Rosso di Montalcino

The whole point of a good Rosso? It dares to borrow Brunello’s laurels—and somehow gets away with it at a little friendlier price. Col d’Orcia’s take is always flirtatious, always inviting. It’s silky, it’s easy, it’s fruity, it’s approachable. Don’t ask too many questions. Just drink the damn thing.

2010 Brunello di Montalcino

Col d’Orcia’s Brunello is like someone who toasts with open palms and eye contact—a wine that speaks plainly and means it. It lingers briefly in your mouth before making a graceful exit—no overstaying, no cling. There’s a hint of gentle oak, like a whispered reminder that even 2010 is still a bit early for serious conversation.

2009 Brunello di Montalcino

Is ten years a lot for a wine? Well, depends. For a Brunello, it’s still the toddler stage. The younger Col d’Orcia vintages tend to be introverted, politely declining your attention like, “Why the hell are you bothering me? I’m not ready yet.” Let’s leave it to Francesco’s conscience and stop asking questions.

2008 Poggio al Vento Brunello di Montalcino Riserva

One of the Cinzano’s best trick is serving younger vintages in between the older ones, thus injecting youthful silk, leathered elegance, and a splash of confidence into a lineup that was rapidly fading into the rearview mirror. I had no questions for this wine. It was a perfectly smooth break.

2000 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva

If you ever wondered what electrified mushrooms taste like—this is it. There’s a flicker of green and a teasing edge of chocolate. It’s charmingly subversive, the kind of wine that’d seduce whole crowds who never even thought about buying Sangiovese. Alive, ready, and irresistible. Pour freely.

1999 Poggio al Vento Brunello di Montalcino Riserva

Think Sangiovese density—squared. This is structure without fat, monumentality without fuss. Every contour in place, nothing to cut, nothing to add. No room for plastic surgery.

1998 Brunello di Montalcino

Under the spell of this 1998 Brunello, the ravioli vanish from the table as if by magic. Laughter rolls from the Japanese and Indian journalists nearby—a gentle sound, the kind that pairs perfectly with Michelin-grade pasta and Sangiovese that stretches into eternity. No complaints. The first pour sets the mood for everything that follows.

1990 Poggio al Vento Brunello di Montalcino Riserva 1990

Proof that Cinzano knows how to make wines that are both straightforward and deep. Thirty years on, and the oak still hums beneath the surface—mingling with tannins that feel like messages from another decade. A relic from wild times, still kicking.

1988 Brunello di Montalcino

The ravioli didn’t stand a chance, so the chef rolled out paccheri—generously stuffed with airy ragù. Alongside it came the 1988, a quietly thrilling moment. This vintage struck a near-perfect chord: age-polished, aromatic, silky. A hint of mushroom here, a whisper of tea rose there—but never too much. No splinters, no wild sparks. Just poise.

1990 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva

This 1990 is decadence distilled—from an era when nobody was debating minerality, and just saying “Pet Nat” in a rural courtyard might’ve gotten you slapped. There’s wilted rose, a sprinkle of dried mushrooms, and a finish with unapologetic barrel swagger. Individually, these notes shouldn’t work. Together, they sing.

1989 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva

Big-league stuff. The 1989 Riserva defies time. Sangiovese like this was never meant to be drained thoughtlessly in some anonymous Chianti. This one bites back. Its acidity hits hard—so much so that you squint, soften it with pasta, and somehow your enamel recovers like magic. Thank your host for saving you a visit to the dentist.

1980 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva

A forty-year-old Sangiovese from a time when legends still walked and Bernard Arnault wasn’t chasing oenologist contracts with loads of cash. Saying it’s “fading” would be generous. This isn’t for drinking—it’s for time travel. Sour cherry, oxidative mushroom funk, boozy chocolate from a gift box full of old-school candies. Historical materialism, beautifully bottled.

1979 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva

Tasting a wine from 1979—that’s crossing some vital borders. At first sniff, it falters: smells like old furniture, but give it space, and watch it shed the decades. Was the Smashing Pumpkins song named after this year? Swirls through your brain like youth and pizza. Take my breath away.

1978 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva

1978 showed up with the energy of someone who’s lived a full life but never needed a facelift. Still sharp. Still charming. Its bright acidity danced through the room, earning approving murmurs from every corner. Nobody felt sleepy. The Count spoke in his warm baritone, people chatted, and suddenly the whole world felt just right.

1969 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva

A time machine disguised as wine: hippie times, Russian dog-astronauts flying to space. Pour this for a skeptic and they’ll convert; for a natural wine purist and they’ll switch teams. The dried-out spine still holds its shape—like a perfectly pressed herbarium. Handle with care—this is not Almaviva. Swirl with caution, let the acidity waltz. This is harmony for the musically gifted.

1968 Brunello di Montalcino Riserva

By now, we were loose, some had lost focus. Then came the decanters, glowing with the brick-red shimmer of 1968. The venison was steaming, the chef paused mid-kitchen—sipping, thinking, “Yeah, I deserve this.” And he did. This is a wine you still can enjoy—but mostly for the sake of knowledge. Unlike the moldy old Barolos of the same age, it held its own. A little wobbly, sure—like someone who can’t cross the street unassisted. But still dignified. Not yet asking for a room with padded walls. No dessert needed. No coffee for us.

The bellezza of Col d’Orcia

I am extremely thankful to Count Cinzano and the whole team. Through the years they helped me discover what Sangiovese can achieve, what Val d’Orcia can achieve, what Col d’Orcia is capable of. Regardless of the year the signature of Col d’Orcia’s wines remains well-carved and extremely desirable: silky tannins, beautifully layered complexity, and what common folk would simply call ‘drinkability’.

It’s a kind of spiritual wealth disguised as approachable complexity—a quietly confident bottle that speaks to you like that rare neighbor who’s both polite and genuinely interesting.

You’d know it if you ever had one.