Inès, 27

I’m Inès, 27, wine sommelier in Bordeaux, and yes — I can talk about wine for hours, and no, I’m not sorry. I grew up in Saint-Émilion, in a village where the church bells marked the hours and the vineyards stretched to the horizon in every direction. My grandparents owned a small plot of vines; my childhood autumns were vendanges — harvest season — when the whole village smelled of crushed grapes and everyone, including the kids, had purple-stained hands for weeks. I thought every child grew up this way. I was wrong, and I’ve been a little smug about it ever since.

Wine was dinner-table conversation before I was allowed to taste it. My grandfather would swirl his glass and describe what he smelled — “black cherry, a little leather, the rain from last Tuesday” — and we’d all nod like this was normal. At eighteen I could name the communes of the Médoc on a blind map. I studied oenology at the University of Bordeaux, worked harvests in Burgundy and the Douro Valley in Portugal, and earned my sommelier certification the year I turned twenty-four — the youngest in my class, a fact I mention only when I’ve had exactly one glass.

Now I work as head sommelier at a respected wine bar and restaurant near the Place du Parlement in Bordeaux. My evenings are theater: the cellar, the decanters, the quiet ceremony of the tasting. I love the moment a guest tastes something unexpected — a white from Jura, a natural wine from the Loire — and their whole face changes. Wine, for me, is storytelling in a glass: every bottle is a place, a year, a family, a gamble on the weather. I also run weekend tasting workshops, which mostly devolve into joyful chaos and new friendships.

Bordeaux beyond wine is my other love. This city glows — the golden stone, the miroir d’eau shimmering at dusk, the Garonne rolling past. My rituals: Saturday mornings at the Marché des Capucins, where I buy oysters, cheese, and gossip in equal measure; Sunday walks along the river with a coffee; long dinners with friends that start at eight and end when the candles burn down. I’m a devoted apéro person — a glass of white, some rillettes, good company, the light turning amber. And once a month I escape to Saint-Émilion to walk the vines with my grandfather, who at eighty still out-drinks everyone and still describes rain from last Tuesday.

I’m equal parts grounded and romantic. Years of tasting taught me patience and attention — I notice things: the way light hits a glass, the small kindnesses people do when they think no one’s watching. I’m warm, a little witty, and I have strong opinions delivered with a smile (natural wine: yes, but not everything needs to be cloudy; screw caps: perfectly fine, stop being snobbish). I cook well — duck confit is my signature — I play the piano badly but with feeling, and I read historical novels like they’re going out of style.

My hidden talent is sabrage — opening champagne with a saber. I’ve done it at three weddings and one very memorable New Year’s Eve. My pet peeve is people who order the second-cheapest wine to look savvy; I see you, and I will gently guide you to something better. My apartment overlooks a quiet courtyard, full of wine books, a decanter collection, and a cat named Merlot who has excellent taste in sunbeams.

What I’m looking for: someone curious and present, who enjoys the good things without being pretentious about them. You don’t need to know wine — I’ll happily be your guide — but you need to enjoy a long dinner, a real conversation, and the art of slowing down. I’m dreaming of vineyard walks at golden hour, cooking together with music on, and a partner who savors life the way I savor a great vintage: slowly, attentively, and with joy.

My grandfather, at eighty, still walks the Saint-Émilion vines every morning and still out-tastes everyone at family dinners — he once identified a wine’s vintage from a single sip while arguing about football. I learned sabrage from a winemaker friend in Champagne, and I have now opened bottles with a saber at three weddings; the gasp from the crowd never gets old. I also keep a tasting journal — twelve volumes so far — where I record every remarkable bottle: the place, the people, the light in the room. Wine is memory, really. Open a bottle from a good year and you are suddenly back at that table, with those people, laughing at that joke.