The Antinori family has been making wine since 1385. Twenty-six generations. They joined the Florentine Winemakers' Guild before Shakespeare was born. And the winery they built in 2012 — after seven years of construction — looks like the future arriving in the Chianti hills. It disappears into the landscape. Vineyards grow on the roof. The Cor-Ten steel and terracotta match the exact color of the soil. Marco Casamonti designed it to be a sacred place of silence — a temple to winemaking that also happens to produce some of the most coveted bottles in Italy.

You got there by Ferrari. Two of them. The F8 Spider in Rosso Corsa against the Tuscan stone of the winery's façade is a photo that should not work as well as it does. Rhone was there. He stood under the spiral ramp looking at his phone, which is the only wrong thing anyone did all day.

The restaurant is named after Rinuccio degli Antinori, the family's first recorded winemaker — 1180. The terrace overlooks the Chianti valley, and in October, when the vines are turning, the view is extravagant. The zucchini flower fritters came with anchovies and red pepper. The pasta — mezze maniche with mushrooms and rosemary — was the kind of thing you want to eat in exactly this place and nowhere else. And across the table: three bottles of Solaia.

Solaia was born in 1978 from an excess of Cabernet grapes that couldn't go into Tignanello. 3,600 bottles of an experiment that became one of the most celebrated Super Tuscans in the world. 75% Cabernet Sauvignon, 5% Cabernet Franc, 20% Sangiovese. The sunniest parcel of the Tignanello hillside. The vertical across three vintages tells you something about what time does to a wine — and what a six-century commitment to a single valley looks like when it's poured into a glass.