Caravaglio, Salina Bianco

If you ever get the itch to find the real Italy—the one that hasn’t been lacquered over by tourism boards and influencer filters—start by driving south and a bit west until the road literally runs out. You’ll board a ferry across the Strait of Messina, watching mainland Italy dissolve behind you like a bad habit. But don’t stop in Sicily. Keep going. Find a small boat, point it northwest, and after an hour of salt wind and open sea, a volcanic necklace of islands rises from the water like something the gods misplaced. One of them—Salina—is where time taps the brakes. Here, capers aren’t a garnish, they’re a religion. The air smells of wild herbs and sea spray. The local white wine tastes like someone squeezed citrus over warm stones and dragged it through the surf. If you love Santorini’s Assyrtiko, this is its Sicilian cousin: same volcanic electricity, but with Italian soul.

I stayed on Salina for a week, and it didn’t take long to understand why the locals speak about this island with a kind of quiet pride. Life moves at a different tempo here: fishermen hauling in octopus at sunrise, caper buds being sorted in the shade, and every evening ending with some combination of lemon, olive oil, and whatever seafood was still twitching two hours earlier. We stayed at Hotel Signum, the island’s elegant-but-effortless hideaway, where the infinity pool looks straight across the sea toward the slow plume of smoke rising from Stromboli. It was on these same shores—at Pollara Beach—that Il Postino was filmed, that soft-spoken love letter to poetry, longing, and island life. When you’re here, it makes perfect sense: the streets still feel like a movie set, the breeze still smells like the sea, and every glass of local white wine feels like it’s part of the landscape rather than something imported into it. And it’s in this setting that Nino Caravaglio works—known first as the Caper King of the Aeolians, but now quietly the guardian of the island’s native grapes, farming steep terraces of black pumice and basalt as his family has for generations. Ask any shopkeeper, fisherman, or grandmother on the island where to find the best wine, and they’ll point you straight to him. Not because it’s fashionable, but because it tastes like home.

The 2024 Salina Bianco is mostly Malvasia with small percentages of other indigenous whites, all organically farmed, hand-harvested, and fermented in stainless steel to preserve the tension and salt-kissed clarity of the fruit. No oak, no makeup, no tricks—just a short rest on fine lees to add texture without muting the mineral core. It clocks in around 12.5–13% alcohol, but drinks lighter, lifted by acidity that feels like cold seawater hitting warm rock. The flavor profile is a straight line back to the island: lemon peel, peach pit, crushed shells, wild pollen, local herbs, lychee, white roses and that unmistakable saline snap that makes you want another glass before the first one’s gone. It’s the kind of wine that turns a plate of grilled octopus (with capers and lemon) or spaghetti alle vongole into a religious experience. Serve it just above fridge temperature and it will keep opening, gaining a soft honeyed note after 2–3 years in bottle. Drink now through 2028. This is terroir made visible. One sip and you’re back on the terrace at Signum, watching the sun fall behind Stromboli as it erupts, listening to forks hit plates, and already wondering if you should have ordered a second bottle.