A gentle breeze sifts scrub as an old orange Russian-made truck wobbles by, threatening to spill its cargo of freshly-hewn boulders. Far away on the periphery of the crater that is this open mine stands a supervisor, surveying István Szepsy Jr. and our troupe of transplanted sommeliers.
Access to this article is restricted.
You need to have a valid subscription to access this content. If you already have a subscription please log in.
Subscribe
Subscribe today for unrestricted access to ALL content and receive all email newsletters.
Already a subscriber?
Please log in using the link at the top of the page to see this article and all subscriber-only content.