It was on the second shelf down, turned slightly, like someone had already handled it and put it back.
Artesanal across the front. Then the usual lines about respect for the land, minimal intervention. You see the same phrases often enough that you don’t really read them anymore. Just recognise the shape of them.
I picked it up anyway.
Turned it once. Then again, slower, catching the light from the window. Nothing obvious. No green leaf. I checked the back properly this time, not just a glance. Ran my thumb along the edge of the label where they sometimes tuck the certification code.
Still nothing.
For a second I thought I’d missed it. Looked again. Same result.
It looked right though. That was the thing.
Old vines mentioned. Altitude. Hand-harvested. Something about sulphites being kept low. All stacked there, doing the job. You could see how someone would stop at that point and not go any further.
The shop was quiet. Someone near the counter asking about Rioja, going round the usual loop. Crianza, reserva, how long it’s been in oak. The man behind the counter answering without really needing to think about it.
I was still holding the bottle.
Picked up the one next to it without putting the first back. Simpler label. Fewer words. The green EU leaf was on the back, small enough that you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it.
Same region. Close enough on price.
I held both for a bit longer than made sense. Not comparing anything properly. Just turning them slightly, like something might show up if I gave it another few seconds.
It didn’t.
I put the first one back, not exactly where it had been. Slightly off from the rest.
Took the other one to the counter.
The man didn’t say anything about it. Just scanned it, bagged it, moved on. Someone else stepped forward before I’d even taken my card out.
Outside, it was still warm but not as sharp as earlier. I walked a bit slower than usual, turning the bottle again without really looking at it.
I tried to remember the name of the one I’d left behind.
Couldn’t.