Outside's Go Magazine - Travel and Style for Men

After one particularly fortuitous wrong turn, which led us miles down a deserted, full-throttle dirt road, we eventually stopped. Sunset. Only the twitters of field birds. Tim said, "I don't know if I can ever do another one of these trips without a motorcycle," and then gunned it for the horizon.

Nonetheless, midway through the trip, after our late night at the Refúgio da Vila and a fruity afternoon at the regional tasting room, just three days remain and we haven't found a single import-worthy wine. We agree to employ Tim's favorite method: Go to a famous restaurant and sample till the credit card maxes out.

We head for Fialho, a tavern deep in the labyrinthine alleys of the walled city of Évora, where the decor of wooden farm tools and hand-crafted plates hints at an exceptional menu of slow food. We settle into six different appetizers, including roasted lamb and a pork-and-clam stew, then get after what we're really here for — the sommelier. We start with his favorite two bottles and go from there until midway through lunch, when we've found a couple great wines that weren't on our itinerary. We ask the sommelier to phone the winemakers to set up appointments on our behalf; it turns out he can do one step better.

Around the corner, from the bar, steps a tall lanky man, well over six feet, with a crazy shock of black hair, droopy cheeks, a pointy chin, deep oblong bags under his eyes, and a gargantuan schnoz.

"What do you think of the wine?" he asks, pointing at our 2003 Quinta do Mouro.

Before we can answer, he grabs Tim's glass and sticks his tremendous nose deep inside. His beak is huge, almost Gallic, and distorted in the parabolic curve of the glass it grows even bigger, oblate. He inhales so deeply I think my ears will pop.

He waits for us to say something, but we're too stunned. A Portuguese Keith Richards just sniffed Tim's wine. Seeing that we are apparently deaf and mute, he moves to return to the drink he's sharing with three attractive ladies.

"This is Miguel, the winemaker," explains the sommelier, grabbing him by the elbow.

Miguel agrees to show us where he makes his wine. "You can come to my house," he says. "It is not a winery."

Quinta do Mouro, a crumbling whitewashed estate 25 miles northeast of Évora, is surrounded by a humble 22 hectares of vineyards. Untended fields and a highway hem the property in on one side; a slapdash housing project borders on the other. The pastoral beauty of Comenda Grande couldn't be farther away.