“You’re going to walk out of here crooked,” says my friend Michelle—not an outlandish statement, except it’s 10:30 in the morning. We’re the only sober people at Gruden Stanislav, a sparsely decorated, wood-beamed osmiza (or tavern) on the hilly and—as I would find out—oddly unique northeastern fringe of Italy.

A fire crackles in the stone fireplace as an old man drinks from a carafe of cherry-sour teran wine (a regional specialty), leaving red circles on the plastic checkered tablecloth.