On the Wine Trail in Italy

This weekend I listened to a panel of chefs from Texas who brought national attention to Southwest cuisine. They were Robert Del Grande, Dean Fearing and Stephan Pyles, and we were at the Buffalo Gap Wine and Food Summit at Perini Ranch in West Texas.

Robert Del Grande, who hails from Houston, said something that caught my ear. He said, “In the beginning, we were looking for ingredients that you couldn’t find in the supermarket.” Things like red bell peppers, chayote squash, heck, even cilantro, they couldn’t be found in the large stores. Here we were, a chef talking about a time 30+ years ago, telling us he was looking for something no one else had.

“And then, something changed. I started thinking that we went in the wrong direction. We should really be looking at was readily available, not the impossible, but the commonplace. To make food from the communal shelves, that was what we found in exotic places.”

Indeed, if you go to a market in Mexico, you can find all the ingredients chefs work with in their area. Or if you walk along open markets of larger Sicilian towns and look at the offerings, there you will see what people are making in their homes and in the local eating spots. This search for the elusive and the exclusive is not a mania in well-developed cultures.

But in America, we are still seeing this grasping for something no one else has. It is especially evident in today’s emerging wine professionals, who are looking for the next shiny thing. Assyrtiko is so yesterday. Gruner? It’s a goner. Who’s next to walk the plank, Trousseau or Touriga? There are endless new grapes and wines to “discover.” How far away from the basics must we veer before we find ourselves locked in our own personal tower of Babel, searching for all the unknowns, looking for something more exclusive, before we reach a dead-end?

Funny, this isn’t something new. The well-dressed somm set didn’t raise the funds, outfit the ships and sail off in search of the New World. This has been going on for ages, sometimes even circling back to some of the classics, gone so far out of popular favor that when they were sighted on a far horizon, they appeared to be as new and unusual as some of the more esoteric playthings of the day. Syrah, Chenin, Nebbiolo, they have benefited from being rediscovered again.

But if you build a house out of bricks and live in an earthquake zone, if you don’t reinforce them, how long will they hold? Without the foundation and with the proper framework, it won’t last.

I see that on some of today’s wine lists. It’s not that I don’t recognize esoteric wine from the Jura or the experimental orange wine from Friuli. But like Del Grande said, it is the readily available that challenges one more than the exotic. Sure it’s easy enough to compile a list that will garner tons of twitter comments and Instagram posts. What about a list that finds the great St. Emilion or the really classic Chianti? Is it because they already have been discovered by someone else?

A restaurant wine director walks into a retail store and mentions a wine by the glass had at a nearby restaurant. “I am pouring that by the glass as well. But I guess it’s time for me to take it off the by the glass list.” The retailer, a mentor to the young wine professionals in his town, looked at this person with some incredulity and said, “Why on earth would you do that? You thought enough about that wine to offer it by the glass. What about someone else liking it makes that wine a lesser thing now?”

There really was no comeback. It was something to think about.

In another setting, a producer of Chianti goes into an Italian-themed place and the wine director proceeds to tell the visiting producer that the wine list contains not one Chianti. Said wine director was proud of it, boasted of finding other things like Ciliegiolo and other wines. “Don’t need Chianti on the wine list.” The producer was dumb-founded. That must have been a long dinner.

It’s as if basic means ordinary, pedestrian, common, uninteresting. And the more unusual wines, sometimes of a lesser quality, they get a pass because they are different, even if that merely means they really are inferior. Meanwhile, the classic wines are judged more harshly because of the neighborhood they came from and the success they have had over the years, regardless of their pedigree or the fastidiousness of their making.

I think we are at a fulcrum, a turning point, where we might have reached the end of this kind of behavior. To use a wine list to display one’s aptitude for finding the obscure over the contentment of the guest, well that just flies in the face of why we are here: and that is to serve somebody. And that somebody is the folks who come in to escape the pressures of the day, to relax and to have a good experience. The same folks who provide the funds to keep these ships afloat.

I’d like to challenge wine directors, especially ones who focus on Italian wines, but not limited to that. The challenge is to find a way to make a wine list with less than 100 wines (preferably 50, no more) that will represent the best Italy has to offer and at the same time be a list that reflects the hard won battlefields of the classic wines that make up the building blocks of Italian wine. Find a killer Chianti that the most diehard Ciliegiolo fan will weep when he tastes it. Offer up a gorgeous Soave. Find us a delicious Prosecco that flies in the face of all the crappy Prosecco that is out there. Bring to our table a Nero D’Avola that isn’t trying to be New World and that isn’t trying to be so obnoxiously natural. Serve us up a Barbera that will make us forget about the hundreds of unknown grapes that you’re dying to teach us about. Make us cry with joy for a Brunello that is humble and precious and so stubbornly Tuscan that we rejoice in having rediscovered Sangiovese from Montalcino. Give us a Montepulciano from Abruzzo that doesn’t cost a gazillion bucks, and isn’t on Delectable every other day posted by an “influencer”, but is made by a honest farmer who works his fields, fields next to pastures where sheep graze, and the wine is rustic and brutally honest, and a joy to drink with friends, with families and even with the other strangers locked in the tower we are all trying to break out of.

written and photographed (In Italy and Sicily) by Alfonso Cevola
limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

wine blog + Italian wine blog + Italy W

After having spent most of April crisscrossing Texas in my covered wagon to teach hundreds of people about Italian wine, there were a few moments when I was scratching my head, wondering why I was teaching some of this stuff. The scores of DOCG wines, hundreds of IGT (P) wines and even more DOC (P).

It was a simple comment in passing that started this. I was talking to an Italian and he said, “This Toscana IGT is a disaster. How can anyone make sense of it when you can have one for $4 and one for $400?” I noted the comment and moved back to my class presentation. But it stuck with me.

Let’s take a look at a few of the denominations that cause me their fair share of agita.

Terre Siciliane IGT

Red, white, rosé, dry, sweet, still or sparkling. Blends or single varietal. Oh, and novello too. Whites from Ansonica to Zibbibo. Red, from Aglianico to Syrah. This looks like it came from kitchen-sink legislation, allowing for virtually anything from Sicily to fall under this denomination. Why? It’s not as if getting into this classifiaciton is going to get you more status. Look, Sicily produces a lot of wine, some say as much as Australia. And a lot of it is just good (better than it used to be, at least) everyday drinking wine. But Terre Siciliane is a small step for mankind. It looks more like it was intended for politicians to say back home to their constituents, “Look, I am protecting your investment. See what I did for you!” Yeah, right.

Delle Venezie IGT

This one wins the Trifecta. 17 million cases a year from three zones: Friuli–Venezia Giulia and Veneto, plus the entire province of Trento in Trentino–Alto Adige. White, rosé, red, and novella. Scores of white grapes, from Bianchetta Trevigiana to Welschriesling (Riesling Italico). Red too, from Ancellotta to Vespaiola.

It’s the kind of denomination that master sommelier candidates would get as a “gotcha” question- question being “Which denomination carries over into three regions?”

Not to be confused with the Veneto IGT (Sorry, no Veneta IGT allowed). The Veneto IGT is fed by almost 13 million cases a year, with virtually the same grapes and types of wines allowed. I can’t make this stuff up. It’s the law. Look it up. And if that's not enough there is also a Veneto Orientale IGT. They make up a paltry 140,000 cases.

30 million cases, though - that's a lot of buying power.

Toscana IGT

The one that started me down this rabbit hole with that brief (but memorable) conversation had last month. Also known as Toscano IGT, one and the same as Toscana IGT. Allowed wines are white, rosé, red, dry and sweet. And novello. White grapes allowed from Albarola to Welschriesling (Riesling Italico). Red grapes, from Aleatico to Vermentino Nero, including Teroldego. That’s right, you read correctly. Oh and, Nero d’Avola, Barbera, Muller-Thurgau and Roussanne. How terribly catholic of Tuscany, to include the little bastards from France, the Sicilians from the south and the Teutonic hordes from the north. An absolute mosh-pit of “anything goes.” Look on the bright side. If you are a creative type with sociopath tendencies and you like them dark and sweet, then Toscana IGT is the denomination for you. And if you want to make a $4 “Super Tuscan”, hey, guess what? You’re in luck too? And if you just couldn’t get into the Bolgheri DOC club and Val di Cornia just ain’t sexy enough for you, there you have it – Toscana IGT – to the rescue. And you can charge $400, why not? What a boon for winemaking.

Piemonte DOC

The powerful ones in Piedmont stopped the IGT movement at the borders of Lombardia and Liguria. Only DOC and DOCG’s allowed in their land. But, not to worry, the politicians there are busy at work devaluing their lofty denominated wines with the latest DOC – Piemonte. A catch all for wines that aren’t worthy of being called Barolo, Barbaresco, Barbera or even Nizza (the latest DOCG - #74 if you’re still counting). Someone must like it, because around 3 million cases a year call themselves Piemonte DOC, with grapes from Chardonnay to Sauvignon Blanc in the white grape category and red grapes Albarossa ( not to be confused with the white Albarola grape allowed in the Toscana IGT denomination) to Syrah (just like the one allowed in Terre Siciliane IGT). Lots of attention to terroir in this category, I guess. While it is a catch-all category, at least it hasn’t had to grovel down to the IGT category like Terre Siciliane IGT or Toscana IGT. The moral of the story? If you are going to be Syrah in Italy, it pays to grow up in Piedmont - at least you can grow up to be a DOC, or a DOP, if you are going to grow up to be an internationaliste.

Chianti DOCG

The whoopee cushion of all appellations – the Mother lode of swagger and pomposity. The “We were here first and we are not abdicating – not now – not ever” denomination. Oh and up until recently, to prove their provenance, they wouldn’t allow cork-closure alternatives, citing that it would cheapen the brand identity of Chianti.

Now don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of Chianti wines I like. It’s just that most aren’t DOCG caliber. Chianti doesn’t need to cry wolf over screw tops, they’ve already shot themselves in the foot with any number of inferior red wines masquerading as one of only 74 DOCG wines allowed. While it should stand for higher quality, we all know this was also a political maneuver, driven by the wealthy and influential Tuscan oligarchy. Good on ‘em, I say. If you can’t please ‘em, squeeze ‘em. Squeeze ‘em dry.

Yeah, that’s what has been occupying my rancid mind this past week. It ain’t pretty. But it’s better I talk about this than to really let my hair down.

Don’t let your hair catch on fire over this one. This is just the tip of the DOCG/DOC/IGT iceberg. “It’s Italy, we’re used to it.”

At least that’s what they say in Italy... in 2015.

further reading:
Terre Siciliane IGT
Delle Venezie IGT (and Veneto IGT)
Toscana IGT (or Toscano IGT)
Piemonte DOC
Chianti DOCG

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

wine blog + Italian wine blog + Italy W

“When will you talk about it?” My friend was pouring me a Sangiovese, in purezza, leaning in. “You and I discussed it over a year ago. Isn’t it time yet?” Raffaella, my Tuscan confidant in purezza, was pressing me to come in out of the rain and spill it.

“Ok, I promise to get into it at the next possible opportunity.” But I wasn’t looking for a fight or controversy. I’d had enough of that from the Vinitaly debacle. It really should be something more intimate, like a letter. After all it is a communication among friends. But it is a conversation that needs to be opened up to more than me and my Tuscan confidant. A letter form, that feels right. It’s more personal.

Dear Raffaella,

Even though you don’t live in the classic zone for Chianti, we now address this. Not that this is directed to you. If it were, it would be a private message. As is, we have had this talk, many times, over the years. But the world wasn’t listening. At least the world we know and the world that knows us.

What is this little problem with our Sangiovese? Isn’t it a little like our society? We have the famous ones and the unknown ones. We have the large and the small. We have the important and the insignificant. We have the left and we have the right. We have the self-proclaimed and we have the humble ones. What we don’t have is any sense of consistency, a connection of sorts, between the high classic and the common place Chianti. And the problem, to make matters more complicated, the perception of Sangiovese , as Chianti, is distorted.

Popularity is partially to blame. Profit also. It’s such an easy mark, to bottle a wine, whether in a folkloric bottle like the straw covered fiasco, or to deliver it in a deeply punted and over-weighted dark glass, as a most serious kind of affair. What’s inside? Isn’t that what we are seeking? The inner soul of Chianti?

A man worked all his life, came up from humble beginnings, had many, many challenges in life. And then he made it. Big. Multi-millions in value and as much in the bank and in land wealth. He was a simple man. But his wine was far from simple. And not accessible to everyone.

A family plowed with wooden plows and oxen. The floor where they ate was dirt. They were unassuming. But they were sitting on a gold mine. It just took hundreds of years for the gold to surface up, in the form of red, liquid, savory Sangiovese. And then, what? Then the wine flowed and the prices rose and the bank accounts grew, like the estates and the boats, and the homes in, California, Florida, Rome, Sardegna, Liguria.

There are scores of stories like this. But how does this address wine for the common folk, who do not come from a royal or noble family. Wine that is still wholesome and true, and available to people who aren’t tycoons? That’s the windmill I’m tilting toward today, dear Raffaella.

Tomorrow we will hear speeches about the different zones of Chianti; will they be called sub-zones, as if they are sub-par? I object to that term. But it isn’t the crux of the crisis that Chianti is in right now.

And will we hear lofty proclamations about the new elevated status for Chianti, Gran Selezione? Yes, it is the darling little soccer ball right now.

Will we witness the dialectic between the traditionalists, the modernists and those in between, who are all striving for authenticity?

And will we be subject, again, to the argument that one respects the time-honored practices from the past while dipping one’s toes in the infinity pool of modernity? All the while, making a great wine for cellars in the sky?

But what about wine for the commoners, we the (little) people? What would it be? Can a patrician, a noble one, deign to make good, honest wine for the grass cutter, the window washer, the plumber or the servant?

No doubt, in the tomorrow of the future, we won’t hear any more about it than we have in all of the tomorrows of yesterday. Wine for the commoner is becoming more and more uncommon. The man from humble beginnings has had a lot of time to think about where he came from. But the painful reality is that he no longer belongs to that world. He has become elevated, as has his wine. And he can no longer touch the ground in which he came from as easily, for the distance he might fall in reaching back might be fatal to his station in life.

Hence, we are still wandering in the desert for the manna we call Sangiovese, searching for truth for all, for sustenance for the many and for availability for the common folk. Yes, Sangiovese might have sprung from the veins of an immortal, but for the commoner, the distance between Heaven and the castle is closer than the castle and the cottage in the village below.

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

wine blog + Italian wine blog + Italy W

No Tables. No Servers. No Tipping.

Let’s see, where have I been? Monday, it was in San Francisco. Tuesday, back in Dallas. Wednesday? Houston. And Thursday found me in Austin, Texas. Hopping around from city to city via plane, car and Uber, I’m playing road warrior again this month. My travel schedule is insane, but right now being on the road feels like the right thing. And occasionally (actually, often) I find myself poised in front of brilliance. Whether it is listening to Darrell Corti, Tim Gaiser and Shelley Lindgren wax eloquently about Chianti Classico, or Alois Lageder explain with a deeply back-lit gleam in his eye about his transformation from grower to bio-dynamic guru, right now I feel like one lucky fellow. But those are vanity posts for another day. I’m currently smitten with a little new place in Austin, and one you should get yourselves to, A.S.A.P., before it becomes the hardest seat to get in Texas. And I’m betting it won’t be long before that happens.

I happened upon Counter 3.FIVE.VII a few weeks ago. Not having a reservation and arriving a bit late, the hostess asked the kitchen if they could squeeze in one more diner. It was only 8:45, I didn’t have a reservation, and the 25ish seat counter wasn’t fully occupied (n.b. the kitchen closes at 9). My radar shot up and I saw a chef in the kitchen give an affirmative sign, so I thought, why not, let’s give this place a shot.

Jason Huerta is the beverage director, whom I knew from Dallas, and is one of the brightest young wine professionals in the country (How’s that for a p.r. popping proclamation, Dr, P?). The first night I was there, Jason was home sick. But, as a sign of his leadership (and the "1 Team - 1 Dream" staff) , the beverage program was brilliantly handled in his absence.

Seafood Stew - Saffron, Ocean Consomme, Seafood Garniture

I sat down and had the 3 course menu (the restaurant has a 3, a 5 and a 7 course fixed menu, with or without wine matching). It started with a seafood stew that simultaneously sent me to San Francisco, Porto d’Ascoli and New Orleans, crowned me king and saw me off on a blazing royal raft towards Heaven. Or was it Hell? It didn’t matter, if this was my last meal on Earth, so be it. Yep, it was that damn good.

Mind you, I’ve dined around, so I can be a bit jaded. And Austin, which I love, is growing into a city where dining has come from fast casual, flip-flop trendy, slowly, to the more serious cuisine than one finds readily in cities like San Francisco, New York, Houston, Paris, Rome, you get my drift? I’m all for being the cheerleader, but if you’re going for 3 star Michelin, you gotta play like you’re in the big leagues. That kind of dining is evolving from the first time I walked down Congress in the early 1980’s.

My Uber driver Patrick put it this way, “Ever since the Circuit of the America’s (race track) opened, Austin has been transformed. We’re getting a lot more international visitors.” He said this as we were driving down Congress, the main drag in Austin.When he let me off, he pointed to a group of Chinese tourists taking selfies next to a large guitar on the walkway. “See what I mean?” he said, as I headed into Counter 3.FIVE.VII to meet my clients.

Yeah, Austin is getting all “growed up” and along with it comes a deeper commitment to food, not just as something to fill the belly, but as a first world existential polemic. Food can be as political as, say, politics. But it can be so much more delicious. And combined with the seamless wine matching that a lad such a Jason Huerta has devised, well, it makes life ever so much more beautiful.

All this to say – get your butts into one of those seats at Counter 3.FIVE.VII, before those seats become an unattainable wish.

First off, the food is healing. It is beautifully presented, and one can see the loving care they put into each dish, as there you are, sitting around their kitchen watching all the busy bees at work. The seats are comfortable (and this is coming from one who normally eschews “high chairs”). The music is wonderfully eclectic, in a way that Austin shines. I tried to imagine this restaurant in San Francisco. First, it would be much, more expensive. Next it would already be impossible to find a seat at. And then there is that laid-back Austin style, a “New Texas” evolution that isn’t so self-conscious. There’s still a healthy dose of self-deprecation among the workers. It’s like they actually are surprised that one would like the place so much. But as one who does dine “around” the world, I’m good with a little innocence around the edges. It’s healthy.

Koshihikari "Risotto" - Stinging Nettles, Smoked Pork Jowl, Crème Fraîche

Executive Chef and partner Lawrence Kocurek was animated the second time I dined here. A mellow guy, he brought out many of the dishes himself. He’s also pretty busy as the restaurant garden-to-table provider. Many of the herbs and vegetables come from his garden at home. Nice touch, from one who dines regularly from the home garden. Texas is a great place to grow food, not just meat. And right now, veggies and herbs are bright and full of energy. And that kind of energy in food, as well as being delicious, can be healing.

Look, I’m not talking enough about the food. And I apologize for that. I’ll leave that to the Bill Addison’s of the world, who have a greater vocabulary and wordsmith skills.

Jason Huerta today (L) and (R) Texsom 2011 "Texas Best Sommelier" chatting w/Serge Hochar

But I will brag on Jason Huerta’s matches. There was one dish that Jason seemed particularly vexed with matching. It was Langue de boeuf "Beef Tongue" with Bitter Greens, Oysters and Burnet leaf. Jason told our party, “I originally paired it with a Rhone red, but I wanted a touch of American oak. I found this Rioja; I’m hoping you all think it’s a good match. Let me know what you think.” Yes, Jason, you nailed it. From the first course with a Friulano, to the Rioja, followed by a positively out of this world Assyrtiko and then an Australian Mourvedre “Baby Bush” from Hewitson (“I love all the wines these folks make.”). And the killer surprise at the end, with the unbearably light dessert, a nebulous sake, Rihaku "Dreamy Clouds", Tokubetsu Junmai Nigori.

The five course wine and food pairing we had:

I. Rainbow Trout Roe, Roasted Hazelnut, Asparagus
+ Friulano Villa Chiopris - Friuli-Venezia Giulia, Italy
II. Langue de boeuf "Beef Tongue" - Bitter Greens, Oysters, Burnet
+ Beronia Rioja Reserva, Spain
III. Octopus - Japanese Sweet Potato, Bok Choy, House Lap Cheong
+ Assyrtiko, Argyros - Santorini, Greece
IV. Duck - Turnip, Black Garlic, Crawfish, Alliums
+ Mourvedre “Baby Bush”, Hewitson - Barossa Valley, Australia
V. Flavors of Sake - Khao Mahk - Pineapple, Coconut, Cream Soda
+ Rihaku "Dreamy Clouds", Tokubetsu Junmai Nigori - Shimane, Japan

I look at clouds from both sides now - Khao Mahk

Owner, CEO and Dreamweaver Eric Earthman cuts an imposing figure among the delicately tweezed micro-greens. But Eric has the put the right touches on a place that should become a destination dining spot from food lovers from all over America, not just Austin or even Texas. The food is that good.

At the end of our five courses one of the guests lamented that the dinner was already over. An Italian, she wasn’t someone to be easily impressed. “Oh well, the next time I’m in Austin, I better come back here and try the seven course meal,” she allowed, if only to compensate for having to get on a plane and go to the next city, the next presentation and hopefully the next meal.

Eric, Lawrence, Jason and the whole team at Counter 3.FIVE.VII, we’ll be back soon. And I will tell anyone and everyone to get to your counter. In the meantime, don’t forget about me when you do become the hottest seat in Texas, save me a chair in the corner, will ya please? I’ll be back.

COUNTER 3. FIVE. VII
Instagram page: HERE
phone: 512-291-3327
315 Congress Ave. Ste. 100
Austin, Texas 78701

HOURS
Open Tuesday-Saturday
Wine and Charcuterie Bar 4pm-11pm
Chef's Counter 5pm-9pm

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy
Photos I, III, VI & VII are from the restaurant's website

wine blog + Italian wine blog + Italy W

I’m sitting at a table, in a restaurant, with a seminal figure in white wine. The beverage director comes up to us to say hello. A few pleasantries are exchanged. After all, we are guests, even if we are part of the “trade.” Our money spends as well.

We’re talking to the beverage director about which wines do and do not work in his place, which is seafood centric. We come to find out that in this place of his, he says his best-selling category is Cabernet Sauvignon. We are close to a huge body of water; the city is cosmopolitan and diverse. The clientele is well-healed. The menu is seafood. And Cabernet is the big hit here.

We then approach the subject of Italian wine. I’m beginning to think this fellow isn’t a white wine drinker. But he confirms it when he declares “all Italian white wines taste alike.” He then went on to remark that he had never had a memorable one.

Well, alright then. We order some Champagne, then a Sonoma Pinot Noir and a buttery Chardonnay and slog on through the night.

Later that evening, in the hotel, tossing and turning, I thought about what he said about Italian white wines tasting alike. It was a common complaint years ago, one which many wine list makers believed. Maybe 20-30 years ago the nuance of the flavors didn’t jump out so much like a buttery Chardonnay or a grassy Sauvignon Blanc. But that was a claim I never believed and for sure one I never bought into.

How could I? Does a Cortese di Gavi in any way resemble a Grillo? Does Verdicchio stand in at the altar for Vermentino? Is Friulano virtually identical to Fiano? Not to this one they aren’t, any of them. Those six wines couldn’t be more different.

Yes, Gavi and Grillo can be high in acid. Yes, Verdicchio and Vermentino can share a roundness of flavor. And yes, Friulano and Fiano (especially one from Apulia) can have a fullness that to the untrained palate might seem that they are in the same family. But just like an Italian from Friuli and one from Apulia are unique and different in their own ways, so too are their wines.

But what was it, back then 20-30 years ago and even now, that some folks still think these wines are simple, interchangeable cookie-cutter wines that have no difference among them? Is it the person who is making the statement? Or is it the wine?

It might be that some people have expectations of bigger, bolder flavors. And there are those who make up wine lists who fall into that category. Perhaps their clientele do as well; although, I see no compelling evidence that diners in New Orleans, San Francisco, Houston or Chicago have a regional palate, a preference for one type of wine or another. Maybe years ago, when the supply lines were more restricted. But now when people travel as much as they do, and wines from everywhere can be found in the most remote towns in America, I think that old paradigm is probably ready for retirement.

It might be useful to take these six wines and taste them together, in a blind and controlled setting, to see if they really are all alike.

That brings me to a story I have wanted to tell for years on this blog. It must have been in the late 1980’s – early 1990’s. I was invited to a palace for a dinner and a tasting with the producers of the Tuscan white wine then known as Galestro. I believe there were 17 producers at the dinner, and we had all 17 of their wines. Galestro, at the time, was thought to be the “White Chianti,” a wine that could do what Vernaccia do San Gimignano couldn’t. Whatever that was. There were high hopes for Galestro, with wineries like Antinori leading the charge for this wine.

We had Galestro with appetizers. We had Galestro with pasta. With fish. With pork. And with dessert. And at the end, it was quite funny. At my table, of which there were two or three producers, we all looked at each other and said “Well, I guess we don’t have to do that ever again.” It was more like the wake for Galestro than its coming out party. And eventually, not long after, Galestro disappeared into history. A wine that there were high hopes for, but one that never quite cleared the bar.

So, yes, there are Italian white wines that might not rise to the level of a Chardonnay from Burgundy. But there are meals I have had in Burgundy that will never rise to the level of meals I have had in Italy. Italian wine, red or white, is infinitely interwoven with the local culture from which it springs. A Frascati in Rome seems like such a better idea than to have a Frascati in Alba. And in Liguria, where you find those squiggly little sea snail things they serve in a rich warm coral red soup, it’s just better to have a Pigato than perhaps a Muller-Thurgau. So perhaps the uniqueness of the food and the wine that has grown up with it might give the untrained palate the idea that these wines are interchangeable. But sit down with a table full of Italians, who have had their palates honed for centuries more than our new American palate, and you might get a passionate argument. Mind you it will be a delicious one, but there will be no deference towards exchanging their wine for an over extracted Carneros Chardonnay.

Are most Italian white wines “ponderable?” No, of course not. They are serviceable, though and they are accessible. Does that make them simple, anemic monolithic creatures? I guess one could consider the eye of the beholder in responding to this question. But from my perch, they offer pleasure, first and foremost, and satisfaction. Does a Pinot Bianco from Alto-Adige cause me to soul search? Of course not. But it also doesn't cause me to get up and get another bottle because the oak is too heavy for the oysters or the fried okra.

So, to the chap who thinks all Italian white wines taste alike, I submit this is one of those subjects when we will have to agree to disagree. And while I lament that your clients will lose this opportunity to try a Catarratto with the sword fish, inside I am a bit giddy that there will be more for me and my kind to enjoy in our life. There are so many things that have become unaffordable or no longer attainable or just too darn important for those who grew up drinking them. Italian white wines will never price themselves out of my income level. And with few exceptions ( like our dear long gone friend Galestro) there are so many different types of Italian white wine out there to try that I will never tire of them or get bored with their alleged “sameness.”

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

wine blog + Italian wine blog + Italy W

You hear it all the time at the Italian table. Someone has a birthday and everyone picks up a glass of wine to toast them. Someone else shouts out “Cent’anni!” and it is followed by the volley “e uno!”

One hundred years. And one.

And this time it really happened. To my dear mom.

In all likelihood, we would be celebrating her 100th today. For years she thought she had been born in 1915. But when she went to get her passport, mom had to dig up a birth certificate. She was born in Tobasco, Colorado, which is now a ghost town. What a surprise it was to mom when she found out she was one year older than she thought she was. Oh well, it wasn’t like she was cheated out of that year.

“I seems like I just turned 100. Where did that last year go?” Where do they all go, mom? We’re in the boat with you, even the young ones. Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin', into the future.

Mom has a lot of things she has said to me over the years. When I first started shooting photographs, 50 years ago (when she thought she was 50, but she was really 51!) mom was a not always willing subject for my camera. “Why are you always taking unflattering pictures of me?” was the refrain I’d hear all the time. I guess I was exploring the other sides of my mom.

After all, she had movie star looks and no dearth of fabulous glamor shots. A striking Southern Italian beauty, the kind you still see in Italy – unfettered, genuine and timeless.

But I was a little stinker and sometimes I’d push the boundaries of esthetic pursuit. My dad, my sisters, my grandparents, they all put up with my incessant shooting. Thanks to them, I learned how to take people pictures, although I couldn’t imagine any family member showcasing my work on their walls. That’s Ok, as I fall into the street-photography genre more readily than the family-portraiture one.

But it’s been a fun ride, from the time I’ve been on the scene. If you imagine what people like my mom have seen in their 101 years on planet Earth, it has been monumental, historic, even epic. And to be able to remember and clearly elucidate some of those things she’s seen in times past, that’s even more fantastic. Two world wars, an influenza epidemic she barely skipped by. An economic depression the likes of which we have only recently touched upon, but not to the extent of the Great Depression. The birth of the Nuclear age, with the “Bomb.” When we were living in the desert, there were times when they were testing A and H bombs to the east of us. I remember a time or two, hearing when they were testing the bigger ones. I even remember a time when we had to stay inside as the wind was blowing from the east after a big event and radiation was feared to be drifting over the populated areas of the desert.

Fashion, cars, jets, technology, space travel, computers. Mom has an IPad and an IPhone (6+). She does texts, email and Facebook. She has a land line too, just in case. But she’s seen it all. Three kids, eight grandchildren and a load of great grandchildren as well, in her nuclear and extended families.

My dad, he died 30 years ago. But he’s still here in his way. I see him in my son, and in my sister Julie’s oldest son. Too bad he left us too soon. But his sister Mary is still among us, at 97.

And my mom’s sister Josephine is getting pretty close to 100 as well. Longevity runs in the family. It’s good to have parents whose roots sprung from blue zones. My dad’s dad and his sister both made it to 97. Mo mom’s mom made it to 94. I only hope I’ve saved up enough to get me through what might be a potentially long run. I hope so.

Well, mom, I hope you have fun this weekend with the grandchildren and great grandchildren. I know you’d like to have us all there, and one big party. But your life is a movable feast, and so why not celebrate as many times as you can? After all, it’s not every day you turn 101!

Love you, mom. I guess we have to come up with a new toast. How about “Cent’anni!” followed by “e due!”

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

wine blog + Italian wine blog + Italy W

From the "not quite back on the wine trail, yet" dept.

In a world where there are so many tragic events ̶ from the father who lost his wife and daughter when he was 30 and raised his two sons as a single parent, only to lose a son when he became a grown up, to a young boy who, at 5, lost his father to tribal warfare in Ruanda ̶ what does the loss of one tree matter?

Earlier this month, crisscrossing Texas by car, time and again, I recall the morning I was driving from Dallas to Houston and saw a large, mature oak tree in a field that had toppled over from the rain. I was going 65-70 and as I saw the newly fallen giant, I felt a sharp pain inside. Still green, still hopeful from a Spring filled with energy, this tree wouldn’t see another autumn.

A few weeks later, driving by the same spot, the tree was brown and lifeless now. There was none of that “It‘s still green, it might just be sleeping on its side” pretend one does to internally forestall the inevitable reality of death.

Driving from Houston to Austin, around Bastrop, again the area was lush and verdant from a season of rainfall. A few years earlier, during drought, fires ripped through the area. As a reminder, thousands of charred, stripped poles dotted the landscape. Here, thousands died. And their lifeless trunks stood as their grave markers.

May, in Texas, has vanquished the drought that had loomed over us for several years. That is now the fate of California. And to gauge how bad the drought is, scientists have turned to the trees. Looking at the rings of blue oak trees, going back to the 13th century, and have determined nothing this extreme has been in play, for at least millennia.

Yes, there are many important, urgent occurrences pushing up against all of us. So, why one tree, why would it impact any one?

I remember when I brought it home from the nursery. I was so proud to have found the little fig tree. It was in a gallon size container. It had only the simplest of markings on it, “Brown Turkey fig.” I had recently moved into our house and the side yard needed a tree. My grandparents in California had this wonderful fig tree in their back yard. I loved figs. It seemed right.

I look out the window where I am writing this and instead of those bright green leaves and the little baby figs that were sprouting out from the branches, not 24 hours ago, now there is nothing but the naked sky. It sickens me to think of how I found my fig tree. I went outside to check on something and noticed the branches were drooping rather low to the ground. We’d just had another torrential downpour, so I thought the branches were heavy with the weight of the water. And then I saw the tree was leaning, rather, propped against the house. I panicked. The tree stood maybe 12-14 feet tall; the double trunks were probably 14-16 inches in circumference. It was a heavy tree. I would not be able to push it back up, prop it with poles, wires and hope. Who knew if we were done with the rains yet?

A month, maybe six weeks, until harvest. Until the time when I would go out and chase away the birds from the sweet fruits. No more. Harvest is cancelled this year. The birds, and the humans, will have to search elsewhere for those wonderful pleasures.

I didn’t think about why my grandparents had a fig tree in their back year in California. They had other fruit and citrus trees back there as well. They ate from their back yard, as we do today in this now barren of fig tree year. I also had to cut down the little fig tree that I planted 6 years ago, a cutting a friend had brought back from Sardegna. Two fig trees lost, in the same month. Devastating, to this one.

Talking to a young man this morning at the local farmer’s market. He could relate. “I recently planted 5 acres with 500 peach trees. We lost 267 of them with the rains. It’s a tough pill to swallow.”

Is it one of insurmountable grief? Of course not. It’s nothing like when my wife died. But it is like the loss of a distant family member, of a pet, of someone you might not have known but who nonetheless was influential in your life, maybe like a President who was gunned down in the streets of Dallas. Maybe yes, maybe no.

The loss is raw and sharp right now. Over time, it will temper and soften. And from the stumps of the two trees, there is hope. Little leaves are sprouting back up. It’s not a total loss. But it’s a painful one in this moment, a tough pill to swallow, like the farmer said. And another lesson in the transitory nature of life in a universe that we have found ourselves immersed in, for the time being.

written and (unfortunately) photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

wine blog + Italian wine blog + Italy W

Rome, if anything, is a mirror of all that is good and bad in the world. From my first trip here, in 1971, and with all the times I have come into this city, it has eternally stayed the same. It is a reflection of humanity.

Tonight, at Cesare al Casaletto, the food was lovely as always, the mosquitos were gentle, the dogs were patient and many of the patrons were in a state of propagation frenzy. One would have thought it was the beginning of Spring, not the end. I counted four tables where the dessert was foreplay. Entertaining, at the least, to this observer, who had a brand new Passerina to keep him company.

What is it about Passerina? It’s not as harsh as Trebbiano, not as deep as Verdicchio, not as shallow as Frascati and not at all disappointing. If I could imagine a world, it would be one where Passerina flowed endlessly, to all who were open to its charms. Passerina is what many of us are looking for in a wine ̶ delicate, fresh, clean, yes it’s all that. But it’s not just that, something else is going on. How well it went with the fried zucchini blossoms. And the fresh calamari fritti. But then the rigatoni with oxtail sauce comes to the table. Did it shrink? Not at all. Passerina stood up to the challenge, took the bull by the horns and the two were last seen nuzzling up to each other, way beyond the foreplay stage. Yes, versatile, would be the word. But never cheap or even easy. One must bring their best sauce, their finest al dente pasta, for Passerina bores easily. And the last thing one wants is a lackluster Passerina.

******
In other news, well not really news at all. More like a pre-moon-landing walk down Via Veneto.

While I am in Rome, long time restaurateur once told me about Rome in the 1960’s. This restaurateur, let’s call him Mario, told me that he would come to Italy to visit relatives and to do research on the foods being served in local places, usually upscale, as Mario was an upscale kind of guy.

For those who don’t know or are too young to remember, the Via Veneto was ground zero for La Dolce Vita. Fellini fashioned ideas and shaped images from the Via Veneto café society. I was too young, but by all accounts, this was the place to be. Italy was coming out of its long coma from the last war, and Western Society was going through the beginning of a sexual revolution that we still haven’t seen the end of. Talk about a long tail.

Mario was on site, regularly, to assess the food scene, and to also participate in the café society that attracted folks like him. I can only imagine the energy that Rome had for those who were open to such experiences. Many of them are old now, if not dead. And likely, the youth of today look at these oldsters as folks who have never felt a quiver in their loins. Well, those youngsters would be mistaken, for it was the octogenarians, and the nonagenarians who set the sexual revolution in play and made it possible for those four couples to start their foreplay course at the tables in front of me. It was a great show, and I had a wonderful little Passerina there to keep me company.

And the wine? It was a 2014 from Agricola Macciocca, Monocromo #1, Passerina del Frusinate IGT from Lazio. A wine produced in harmony with nature and one that was not only delicious and a great value, but one that ebbed and pulsed with the meal and the emotions that were present in Rome on a late Spring night. And yes, it was a dry wine, but a very sweet experience.

So, it seems, we're finally back on the wine trail, yes? More to come. Check in regularly for the next week or so

written and photographed ( in Rome) by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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There are aspects to life that don’t travel so well on the road. One of them is the lack of interaction with creatures other than humans. Maybe it is a pet, or the birds in one’s back yard, any number of life forms that constitute the daily connections one has, sometimes not even thinking about it. The other, if one is so inclined, is the interplay one has with nature, the grounded lifeforms that don’t move. Maybe it is a tree, or a bush, a plant with fruit or vegetables. And while traveling, those elements that form part of the identity of one’s life, be it only an inner one, they aren’t able to be packed into the suitcase.

This week, in and around Bari in Southern Italy, has been a wonderful experience tasting many wines from indigenous varieties, thanks to all the great folks at Radici Del Sud. Meeting people, some old friends, and some new, getting them to tell their story, opening a wine or two, an immersion of sorts. It has been a really great way to have an exposure to a world that is vibrant, and to a large part, unknown to wine drinkers back in places like Texas, or for that part, California and New York. These aren’t household names, Susumaniello, Nerello Mascalese, Verdeca, Aglianico, Nero di Troia, Minutolo. Oh yes, the somm-set or the wine geeks are fully briefed on these matters. But for the other 99.9%, these are exotic, foreign, unknown.

While at one of these tastings, there came a point when the introvert within pulled the car over to the road and had a little talk with me. “Look, this is all fine, but you’ve got to give me a moment to breathe. Meeting 35 people in 2 hours and having them tell us their story, and taste their wine, well, it’s taxing. I need to step way for a moment and recharge.”

We were in Minervino Murge at Masseria Barbera, tasting Nero di Troia, Primitivo and other indigenous wines. All well and good, but the alcohol was searing my throat. I needed a breather. So I quietly slipped off from the group for a moment and walked outside to smell the rosemary.

Once outside, the forces of nature led me in a new degustation; a little like tasting a wine, but the glass is a bit larger. Here a kitten searching for the warmth of her mother’s bosom. There is the bouquet of wild flowers gathered by a darkly tanned man, the same one who rakes the rocks with a handmade tool, smoothing them out with as much intent as a Zen monk in his rock garden.

Walk a little ways and there is a secret little pine forest, where the breeze choreographs the branches beyond anything Diaghilev dared dream possible. In the middle is a worn down stone trough, perhaps carved hundreds of years ago by a soul who could never have dreamed what the 21st century would bring. Nonetheless, his (or her) influences, their touch, still makes an impression across the span of those many years.

A ways off, there is the call of a peacock, the nervous murmur of the chicken, the assertive alarm the rooster makes to all those under his care, all assembled in their courtyard, taking on the seeds and the little dramas of their daily lives.

Nearby is Maria Pia, the chef’s solitary donkey, penned in and shaking off the flies that swirl around her legs, eyes and back. How patient she is. She comes up to me, looks me in the eye, and that missing connection, one that is had at home with the cat or the dog, is made. “Tell me about your land, Maria Pia,” I ask her with my eyes. And her eyes answer back. And we walk alongside each other for a moment, before another tree, a peach or a plant, a wild artichoke, calls me over to tell me their story.

And so it goes.

Understanding wine, especially esoteric ones that showcase the distinctive richness of Italy, isn’t always just a matter of tasting them. What makes these wines so unique are also the little swirling stories around the wines. If one is to understand Nero di Troia or Primitivo, I need to also know what the animals think is important about this place, what compels the cardoon to grow abundantly in the clearing, why the peaches here are so sweet and so close to the sea at that. Then I can try to ask myself what is this Nero di Troia, what is this Minutolo, and perhaps find a better understanding of why they have decided to live out their life here, while I flit about the earth, from place to place, missing what it is I have left behind.

written and photographed (at Masseria Barbera in Minervino Murge) by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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One soul's radical search for the ideal on an imbalanced planet

Bucita, Calabria ~ 1977

Do you have a lifelong quest? What about life in this world lights up your spirit? Is there some thing, whether it be objective or subjective, that keeps your heart pumping blood through your veins? I hope so, for your sake. We’ve seen too much in this world, lately, of souls who have no greater purpose. And when those dark things happen, our world stumbles.

The world I inhabit mourns with the rest of the souls sensitive enough to know the dark path is the wrong path. When the unspeakable happens, it seems at first, all we can do is stare into the abyss and ask, why? It’s a fool’s errand, for the actions that we grieve over didn’t spring from the well of reason. For my European friends who look at America as a magical place, this kind of tragedy mystifies them even more than those of us in America. I just spent a week in Italy with friends, old and new, and we talked about things like this over the table. President Obama clearly elucidated how many of us on both sides of the ocean feel in the remarks he gave this week:

“But let’s be clear: At some point, we as a country will have to reckon with the fact that this type of mass violence does not happen in other advanced countries. It doesn’t happen in other places with this kind of frequency. And it is in our power to do something about it. I say that recognizing the politics in this town foreclose a lot of those avenues right now. But it would be wrong for us not to acknowledge it. And at some point it’s going to be important for the American people to come to grips with it, and for us to be able to shift how we think about the issue of gun violence collectively.”

Yes we all are going to have to dig deeper and come to grips with racism, in American and in Italy. While in Bari for a week, I saw a region embracing a wider cultural mix. In the little square where we had dinner in Putignano, Italian children played with African children. Clearly, Italy, from the south up, is doing the work of dealing with souls, not skins. I thought about the existential crisis in the north, with the refugees camped at the Italian-French border. I know that racism exists – I have been treated like a black man at times. Not to take away from the black man’s plight, who is treated like a black man all the time. Just to say, I have had a window into that world, and I cannot imagine how one can live life being treated like that 24/7.

I made friends in the 1970’s with a Hopi elder, from one of the old villages, Oraibi. We corresponded for a time. It was a brief interaction, but one that gave me insight into one of the great indigenous peoples on this world. The people of Hopituskwa see themselves as caretakers of the earth. That lesson has stayed with me all this time.

While in Italy, as a guest of Radici del Sud, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to dig even deeper into my southern Italian roots was bestowed upon me and all who traveled there for the event. A week-long event, for which I took time off to go to. Why, do you ask, would one take vacation time to do what one does in the working time? I’m not sure I can answer adequately, but for me it was more like a retreat into my roots, with wine.

We immersed ourselves in Apulia, Campania, Basilicata and Calabria and their indigenous grapes. In reality it wasn’t emotionally much different from the times I’d go to Hopituskwa and crawl among the villages of Sipaulovi, Shungopavi, Oraibi, Hotevilla and Lower Moenkopi. That same sense of sacred permeates the southern Italian land.

In Basilicata, where the Catholic religion has integrated earlier spiritual traditions, it was most interesting. The Goddess energy is so strong. In Campania, as well, along with a strong dose of temporality, assisted by Vesuvio. Apulia, the long flat tongue of a place, with such amazing fecundity. And Calabria, one of the last wild places left in Italy, which the people and the peppers emote with rebellious fervor. I find these things inspiring, for my path is to find a deeper trail into the heart and soul of Italy, not a 5 star resort.

Most of all, the people. I cannot even begin to talk about the wonderful humans I met. From Italy, north and south, from Austria, Belgium, Denmark, England, Germany, Holland, Japan, Hong Kong, Norway, Poland, Sweden and on. People for whom Italy and Italian wine is their path. My global tribe. So wonderful to be with them, visiting wine regions, tasting wine, eating, swimming, laughing, falling asleep, and being with each other.

Back home, in my little greenhouse world of Italian wine, there aren’t a lot from my tribe here. There are some, but the deeper discussion, the exploration, the collaborative, those are endangered. Oh yes, if you want to post a picture of the five greatest Barolos on your Instagram page, I reckon that is a kind of 21st century communication. But it does nothing for me and it moves not this soul. It’s just another selfie. “Look how big mine is.” Yes, yours is bigger than mine. We’re talking about egos, yes?

Carlo Bevilacqua photographs solitary ones around the world. I've written about him in the past. Like the old vines and the livestock that inhabits the lands of Southern Italy, so too, there are humans who represent the ancient ‘radici’ that makes this place so profuse.

I might romanticize Italy much as the Italians romanticize the American West. I’ve seen the unromantic side of the American West, having lived in it most of my life. Nonetheless, we all have a need to make our little dreams ones that we don’t want to tear ourselves away from, in a sweat, with a start. We all want our sweet dreams. For me, Southern Italy is a window into such a dream. And for the wine lover, this is a profoundly rich immersion, if only for a few days. But I will be back with my trowel and my camera and my unquenchable thirst for my roots.

A huge thank you to Nicola Campanile, Maurizio Gily and Ole Udsen for spearheading the conspiracy and opening doors to finally get me to Radici del Sud. There are many others as well, and further posts will follow in acknowledgement. This is truly a wonderful regional event, and one I hope I can return to again some day.

written and photographed ( in Southern Italy) by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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From the Radici del Sud notebook

Forget anything you know about Basilicata and Southern Italy. Disregard anyone telling you this is the poorest region in all of Italy. What I’m about to tell you, I hope, will change what and how you think about this region and the South.

There is an Italy that is still wild, that cannot be subdued by organized crime or disorganized government, and where few tourists venture. Basilicata, when I am in it, I look around and wonder why it took me so long to get back here. The vistas are broad and dramatic, the history is long and the people, well, they are some of the most interesting Italians I have ever met. There is an aura of fierce independence conjoined with a mystical, almost feral nature in the Lucanians. Time is measured by the beat of a metronome that one does not find in the rest of Italy. You have to be there ̶ inside ̶ to experience what I am telling you.

Yes, of course, this is not an easy place. Come here in the winter and find out for yourself. The wind is piercing, the cold is numbing, the fragility of life, your life, can be exposed in a moment’s notice. It is also invigorating, to put oneself on the edge, and to challenge one’s sense of a place. These are conditions with which the humans, the animals and the plants steer their lives. Here is where Aglianico, not Nebbiolo, not Sangiovese, not Pinot Noir, thrives. Aglianico. Tough as nails place to live? Impoverished? Off limits? To a vine, it’s Paradise. Or, at worst, Purgatory with a good chance for redemption.

All of Southern Italy falls under the protection of the Goddess. In many places now she is called Maria. But Her energy transcends the polytheistic, monotheistic and reason. Her metric cannot be gauged; one won’t find it with a spread sheet, a compass or a calculator. Find it with your beating heart. Lucania is the Mother Lode. Everywhere you look, Her guiding hand is there. In the sky, in the water, in the wheat fields, in the eyes of the animals. Does this frighten you? Does this sound a little too pagan for you? Or does this touch something deep inside of you that has long been sublimated? Come to this region and find out. Get in touch with your feminine side. Immerse yourself in a still strong matriarchal culture.

No matter how you slice this amazingly hard-crusted bread, there is a wellspring of spirituality here, untouched by the selfie-stick seller of Rome, the bus driver of Verona or the cashier of Eataly. Come, and see.

There isn’t a wall that has been built around the region by Federico II or Mussolini. The 21st century is here. It’s just in perspective to the other 20+ that have preceded it. The stones symbolize a time in which humans are just a small glimmer, a comma, not a volume. Some Lucanians have ventured out to the larger world. Talking with a young woman, her family owns a vineyard in Basilicata. “Did you leave your home and go to Rome? To Milan? To Torino?” I ask her. “I did. I was looking for my life away from here. I wanted a career. I wanted an identity as a modern woman. I didn’t want to be left in the dust of time.” she told me. “And what brought you back?” I prodded. “It wasn’t a coming back. It wasn’t like that. Rome and Milan, and my ‘career’ gave me the perspective to see that my life wasn’t going to be one where I served from the city. It was more circular than that. I saw my father, how hard he worked for this land, and my mother and my grandparents and great grandparents. How could I give that up for a 3rd floor apartment in Milan, and ferie in Forte dei Marmi?”

Her eyes penetrated through the strong back-light from the window behind where she stood, as she poured me a glass of her family’s Aglianico. That was all one needed to know, why she made full-circle.

“You know we are considered the poorest region in all of Italy.” I was interviewing another female winemaker from Basilicata. The matriarchal runs deep and strong in these parts, as already noted. “But it wasn’t always this way. When Garibaldi made his march to the north, he didn’t go empty handed. He plundered the banks in the south. He took much of our wealth. And now the people in the north look at us ‘poor southerners’ and they ask why they must always pull us out of the river.” I’ve heard this said many times.

In Sicily, sitting at a table having caffe latté and a brioche. “Garibaldi sat at this very table, after he ‘requisitioned’ our family estate as his temporary headquarters.” I was talking to a relative, in the searing summer morning about to become a scorcher of a day. There was little love for the man in those words, other than relief that he finally left and went up north. “Liberated Italy? Is that what the history books called it? He liberated quite a bit more than that. He pillaged the South. And we’re still trying to recover. With the Mafia, though, who knows when we’ll ever get back to who we were?” My relative never lived to see that day. We’re still not there. Yes, along with all the mystical, earth-mother meanderings here, there is also a darkness that in the brightest, hottest, sunniest Southern Italian day, masks the spirit of these folks and mars all of Italy.

“They take our wine to make theirs stronger, our wheat, because it makes the best pasta. They eat our tomatoes in January; we feed them in the winter. And they mock us whenever they can. But if any of them would come and make an honest living here with us, they wouldn’t last a year.” In a shop, getting stamps, gum, tobacco, lotto, the man behind the counter, how many times have I heard this? Italy's North/South bitterness rivals America’s present day tribal/economic/racial acrimony.

And all along this path of life, walking with us, are the animals. Cows, clinging to a hillside, their muscles strengthened by their routine and their healthy diet, making their meat, for humans, so desirable. Those creatures. Birds, flittering, all types, from raptors to doves, navigating their ways with celestial guidance, making music for the earthbound ones as we look up in wonder at how easily they ascend. And the unseen ones, the wolf, the turtle, the dormouse. An occasional lizard sunning themselves on a hot rock. Teeming life, of which we humans rarely ponder. But which, regardless of our consideration, fills this land with more life than we mere mortals can comprehend. All this, leading to a glass of red wine.

Pure wine – strong wine – wine of truth. Aglianico. Not the Barolo of the South. Never. Ever. It isn’t light wine. It’s dark and brooding. Aglianico from Basilicata, which I prefer over the Campanian style, is purple and spicy and herbal and absinthian and it’s like being a little kid being held by your mamma, holding you while you cry as she gently gives you drops of bittersweet medicine in order to keep you from suffering for one more night. Yes, Aglianico, to some of us is medicine. Good Medicine.

Have you ever had a 50 year old Aglianico del Vulture? If you have, you’re one of a few who have ever. The wine, the land, the people were not so organized to store them to see about that claim. They were too involved with living their lives, with survival. Oh, yes, there are bottles in those rock hewed cellars in Rionero. But who’s going to tell you what the vintage is on those unlabeled bottles, piled up for so many years. Maybe the man (or woman) who placed them there is now gone. And even if you could find someone, what language will you speak it in? Theirs? Do you know this language?

Looking for old wine is a conceit for urban dwellers. Take, instead, your cue from the old guys. Drink the Aglianico. Don’t wait for it to get old. It’s a waiting game you won’t win. Drink it. Open it in the winter. Open it in the summer. Have it with meat. Have it with vegetables. Make sauce from you garden of too many tomatoes and marry it with pasta and just drink the Aglianico.

And for those of you who do venture south, go to this little corner of forgotten time and refresh your spirit with the ageless ones. There are happy people there, living simply. Don’t pity them. Don’t covet their life. Celebrate life with them and with their unconquerable red wine for which there is a name and for which there is no equivalent.

Again, thank you to Nicola Campanile, Maurizio Gily and Ole Udsen for conspiring to finally get me to Radici del Sud and back to Lucania.

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

wine blog + Italian wine blog + Italy W

A pictorial journey through West Texas on July 4th weekend

Three weeks ago, I was sitting in a basement in Bari judging Italian wine made from any number of indigenous grapes. Today, I’m in West Texas, eating chicken fried steak and drinking Prosecco. Life is strange, ain’t it? But for my Italian friends, these past few days are the kind of experience I know many of them would give their I-teeth for. Imagine a 4th of July weekend in West Texas. For some it might seem foreboding. But it all depends on who you’re hanging with.

The occasion was the birthday of America and also Dallas cheese maven, Paula Lambert. Along with one of her best friends, chef Stephan Pyles, arrangements were made to caravan to Big Spring, Texas, for a wine and food (and music and dance) weekend in Stephan’s childhood town.

Big Spring wasn’t exactly on my bucket list. But West Texas is another country altogether. I’m fascinated with the bigger-than-life panoramas. And after a wet spring, the normally tinderbox dry desert landscape was April shower green. And the weather, a light breeze, dry and not too hot, made it easy to stay outside.

So what about it would my Italian friends like? For one, most of the wine we had was Italian. We drank dark rosé wines from Apulia and Abruzzo, crisp whites from Piedmont and the Maremma and juicy reds from Umbria, Piedmont and Tuscany. West Texas food, this time of the year, can be anything from smoked salmon to pork ribs, multigrain salads, gazpacho, fried chicken and of course, chicken fried steak. And all the wines we had went exceedingly well with the food.

Highlights of the trip

The Hotel Settles in Big Spring. A recent $30 million dollar renovation makes this a must stop on the road from Dallas to Big Bend. When it was finished a few months after the stock market crash of 1929, it was the tallest building between Ft. Worth and El Paso and could be seen miles away. The place is a little gem among the austere landscape of West Texas. A welcoming (and quite cool) swimming pool where one can relax and catch a few West Texas sun rays, working on the summer tan y’all. Good food, good beds, great air conditioning and a perfect place to camp for the weekend.

Fireworks in Big Spring. I’m not a flag waving patriotic kind of American. But I do enjoy national holidays with a good mix of Americans. Big Spring surely isn’t the prototypical "whites only" place it once was. The evening was a great gathering of music, patriotism and respect for our many men and women (of all colors) who have served our country. And of course, some killer fireworks.

There’s nothing quite like listening to the local symphony belting out Aaron Copeland’s Hoedown while the skies rained with pyrotechnic displays. Yeah, it’s a little over the top – but it brings out the little kid in each of us. Good stuff.

A visit to an iconic ranch – one of Stephan’s childhood friends has a lovely ranch out near Forsan, Texas. The place is rich in oil, historically, and cattle ranching. And the home, lovingly built, stone by stone, by Mexican immigrants who got stuck there in the late 1800’s and had nowhere to go. So they hunkered down, and built a home for the ages. A pond Monet would die for, a house filled with any number of personal touches, so achingly dear that to leave the place was painful.

And the food, Stephan and his team did so many wonderful dishes, perfect for the time and the wines. But the cobbler, along with homemade ice cream, that was the inevitable gut-buster. I wouldn’t do anything different the second time around.

Last night, though, the piece de resistance was our very own hoedown at a honky-tonk, The Stampede Dance Hall. Ours for the night, complete with Dave Alexander and his Texas Swing Band, and plenty of room on the dance floor. Sitting there under the breeze of a swamp cooler, sipping on a dry Cerasuolo from Abruzzo and listening to Bob Will’s music. Outside the rocket’s red glare (from the firework display) - that pretty much nails down my idea of Heaven in America. And for my Italian friends, I lapped it up like a fool, thinking about what you what be thinking, doing, if you were here. Most of you, I know, would be on the dance floor.

And the icing on the cake, literally, was Sunday brunch at Perini Ranch Steak House in Buffalo Gap, Texas. Perini, that’s Italian, yes? That and the mascarpone in the cake and the Prosecco. But all the rest is 110% Americana.

Some see us, come take the ride, spend some time, eat under the stars, dance in a honky-tonk and fall in love with an America everyone can feel good about. We’ll save a place for you at the table – family style, y’all - and that ain't no bull.

written and photographed (in West Texas) by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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It was déjà vu. The tinderbox conditions we were sitting in must have made it seem like it. It was an early summer night, just like before. And there was the same warm breeze that cooled as the sun disappeared behind the mountain range. We were sitting outside at the restaurant attached to the Solage resort in Calistoga. And the subject of the drought came up. I made the comment that it seemed a lot like 1976, which was the first of two drought years that produced some good wines. “I remember being here; the conditions seem the same.” A guest at our table asked me what Solage was like 40 years ago. “I wouldn't know. I was parked nearby in a lot near the fairgrounds; my wife was 6 months pregnant and she and I and her daughter were sleeping in the ‘62 Falcon wagon, hoping not to be awakened in the middle of the night by the local police.” A stretch from the luxe setting of Solage.

Sipping on an old-vine dry-farmed Zinfandel grown steps from our table; a pleasant wine, balanced, even at 15.4%. My mind wandered back and forth between 1976 and now. How much had changed. Talking a few days later with Dante Mondavi about it, and how simple and un-self-aware we all were. Now, it is recollected as a golden time.

Later in the week, sitting at a posh bar in St. Helena, sipping on a magnum of 2011 Mayacamas Chardonnay, visiting with a local writer/sommelier friend. Again clocks turn back. Mayacamas seemed to be holding steady; acid, fruit, citrus, balance. My young friend asks, “Do you think we’ll ever get back to a time when the young wine professionals won’t aspire to be rock star sommeliers and we’ll actually see people embracing a more academic approach?” It appears more than one generation is weary of a world of wine being hijacked by arrogance and egotism; was this what the wine gods had in mind?

Earlier that day, tasting some very presentable Pinot Noir from Russian River with the winemaker- his recollection of Robert Parker tasting with him: “He’d tasted through the line-up and then he came back to the third one and said, ‘That North Slope is so consistently good, year in and year out.’” They were tasting blind. Robert Parker may be dead to the young generation of wine-abee rockers, but he’s far from that in the mind of these producers. He still sells more wine than all of our blogs, podcasts and tirades put together. And his memory, and his palate, still matters. Don’t deceive yourself.

A winemaker walks over to me and my writer/sommelier friend. He started a little project in the Carneros ten years ago. He just got back from tasting with “Bob”, a ten year retrospective of his wines. “He didn’t know me from Adam and he came up to me years ago, in this very spot and asked who the winemaker was. I said ‘why, did you like the wine? Because if you did, I was the winemaker. If you didn’t, the guy next to me made it.’” A simpler time, yes. Crush the grapes, make the wine, sell it, hopefully with a little help from an appreciative chef or a wine scribe. And do it again. And again. No pyrotechnics. No screeds posted to the door of the cathedral ( or Facebook page). Just the work. Over and over and over again.

Earlier that week, on a long afternoon drive up the Silverado Trail, on the way to see another wine, another winemaker, I thought about Philip di Belardino. Before lunch, sitting with a friend who writes and educates the bewildered about Italian wine and she brought him up. “I remember first meeting him. He was such a good ambassador,” she recalled. “And two of three years later, he came across me at a tasting, stopped what he was doing, addressed me by name and asked how I was doing!” Today we think it’s a miracle when someone "important" returns an email (some of them don’t). Pippo knew he was a player in the band, not the soloist. He didn’t aspire to stardom, but his compassion and his love for people and wine will be remembered long after the delectable superstars have posted their umpteenth unicorn wine. And I will miss his emails, much more than the emails that never get replied to.

There’s a rough edge that’s made its into the wine-stream. A young writer writes a good piece about an offbeat wine region. A friend, the world expert on the subject, makes an observation about the piece and gets head chewed off by the now-defensive author. What, 5,000 followers on Instagram make one bulletproof? And when one with expertise patiently and courteously elaborates, what is said author’s reply? Crickets...

Sure, it’s not like the days, as I was telling Dante, when you could roll your ’62 Falcon next to the Benny Bufano sculpture and moments later be sipping Fumè Blanc with Nonno Bob, as plain and natural as a sunny day in St. Helena. Yeah, I miss the innocence and the restraint, both in the wines and in the egos of that time. We could sure use a bigger dose of 1976 than just the arid dearth of moisture. We could use a couple of amphorae filled with humility and deference. Like the Carneros winemaker said, “it’s just crushed grapes.” Considering the nearest galaxy, Andromeda, where there are 1 trillion stars,what’s 9,000 twitter followers? Put in the scale of this limitless universe, that should easily recalibrate a thoughtful person. Perhaps we should concern ourselves less with pursuing balance in our wines and focus more putting our selfie-obsessed lives in perspective. Yes, it’s just a bunch of crushed grapes. But as well, the span of our life, shouldn’t it mean something more than a collection of photographs of wine bottles, of opinions about this or that style of wine? Why do we care about a 30 year retrospective of Solaia or Gaja? How about arriving to a more humble seat in the orchestra, maybe the third violin or the fourth oboe? Isn’t the music sweeter when everyone plays their notes at the right time in the right place?

Yeah, we could sure use some rain, all around…

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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Feral, untouched, wild, unknown – Calabria is a wine frontier. Long passed over by wine connoisseurs in favor of Piedmont and Tuscany, Calabria is part of the grand excuse people make for not getting into Italian wine more because “they are just too complicated and unpredictable.” And those folks have a point – wines from Calabria are not for the conventional set - they require an open and adventurous spirit. But for those who delve into the dark heart of southern Italy, there are some amazing wines awaiting you.

I came across two wineries in Bari last month at Radici del Sud. The first winery, Calabretta (not to be confused with the Sicilian winery of the same name). My first foray with their wines was a dry rosato of Gaglioppo grapes. Richly colored, not bleached and anemic. No, this one is rosy-cheeked and well-tanned. But sleek and thin it isn’t. This is a wine with meat on the bones and flavors that bring out the natural side of the Calabrian countryside. Indigenous yeasts, organically farmed. Calabria, once a dumping ground for chemicals and international varieties, pushed for large quantities. Not this time.

These are wines to savor, as I did for several nights. Living in a warm region of the United States, I look for wine to be refreshing and to also go with the spicier foods we eat in the Southwest. July isn’t always the best time for a Nebbiolo from the Langhe or a Cabernet/Merlot blend from Bordeaux or Napa Valley. And while I love and appreciate those wines, I’m looking to go deeper into Italy and her wines. I’m not wary of the byzantine nature of wines in Italy. I relish it. Maybe that’s the way I’m wired. While I can love wines from France or California and the subtle intricacies of wine from Italy’s lesser known regions pose a welcoming challenge to me. What’s there? What’s interesting? What can I bring back? Who can I share it with?

The other winery, Casa Comerci, makes a red and a rosato from an obscure grape called Magliocco Canino. My southern Italian expert, Ole Udsen, tells me it is not related to the Magliocco grape. Cesare Petracca at Comerci is part of an informal group of Calabrese terroiristi who are embracing their obscurity which I believe has started a little revolution in the South. The Magliocco Canino, also minimal intervention in the winemaking, is like a rabbit hole. You just fall in and go deeper and deeper, discovering an unwritten history of wine as a result. Ole tells me stories of going to the pork butchers of Spilonga, known as porcara, in search of the ultimate ‘nduja. A kind of a holy grail exists among American salumeristi’s, who put ‘nduja on a pedestal similar to foie gras. Cesare Petracca showed his wines with the ‘nduja he (and Ole) believe is from the best porcara in Spilonga. With their rosato, it was a revelation.

I cannot imagine anyone using the excuse of “Italian wines are too complicated” to forgo having this singular kind of experience. Where on earth can one go and turn back the clock a couple hundred years to experience eating and drinking like our great-great-great grandparents did? It’s time travel that is possible, achievable and delicious. Let me see, a wine cellar full of classified growths or an experience like this? Count me in for door number two. To an outsider, Calabria, with their particular ways, their language and their unconventional customs can be intimidating. The touristification of Italy has created a country where the old ways are receding into the dust bin of history. Southern Italy gives the bold traveler a glimpse back into that old world. The people are genuine, the weather is fabulous and the foods are unlike anywhere else in Italy. The wines deserve a look and a taste.

These two wineries are a good place to start. They weren’t the first; they didn’t pioneer a greater understanding of wine from Calabria like Librandi did. For that, I believe we all owe the Librandi family a great debt (a future post will cover an amazing 20 year vertical of Duca Sanfelice Ciro Rosso Riserva I conducted at Radici del Sud). Calabretta and Comerci are an outgrowth of something that began many years ago, but now their efforts are coming to light. I like these wines a lot. They’re wholesome, they’re interesting and they are well integrated with the culture and the food from which they come. We talk about genuine a lot in the world of wine. These wines embody that character. And they are imminently enjoyable.

In other news - ♫ Will you still need me, will you still read me? ♫

This weekend I passed over a personal landmark in time. Whoever thought back then, those of us reading who were alive then, that the day would come? Well, it has. Come and gone. But hopefully, my voice and the peculiar annotations to life still bring some value to the time you, dear readers, expend while perusing these posts. Some say wine blogging is dead - I say some of us have enlarged our world beyond to those things that make wine such a joy in an integrated life. In any case, thank you for coming and for coming back, all these years, if for no reason other than to check in and see if the heart is still beating. Yes, the beat goes on and on and on the wine trail in Italy.

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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By chance, I’m sitting in a restaurant and nearby me is a table of four. Urban dwellers, well-traveled, by the looks of their garb and little snippets of conversation that float into the dining room for all to hear. One in the group starts talking about wine and Italy. The usual suspects are cited – Rome, Florence, Venice, The Amalfi Coast, Cinque Terre. And then someone mentions Costa Smeralda in Sardegna. By this time the wine has been flowing, social lubrication amplifies the voices and one in the group states, for all to hear, “I love the Costa Smeralda, the beaches are great, the seafood holds a candle to no one and the people are friendly. But honestly, I don’t get Sardinian wine.”

It was one of those moments. In a busy dining room it was as if time had stood still. A conversational lull in the room had occurred at that time, and the last statement, “I don’t get Sardinian wine” bellowed throughout the room and careened off the walls. Had the wine gods issued a dispatch?

Moments later, the room returned to normal, the tiramisu and volcano cakes arrived and the table was on to the subject of Turkey and whether Istanbul or Izmir were the better destination. And I, as well, settled back into conversation at my table and didn’t give Sardegna any further thought.

Days, even weeks later, the subject of Sardegna and their wines came up in a conversation among friends. I recalled that moment in the restaurant, almost by chance, as we were also talking about how Italian desserts in America had become a bit of a caricature lately. It was if the gods were pulling me back into the “I don’t get Sardinian wine” discussion. And quite honestly, it’s not as if I haven’t wrestled, from time to time, with this region, their people and ultimately the wines.

In the many years I have been going to Italy, I have been everywhere. Except Sardegna. And I love islands. Been to Pantellaria twice. Salina twice as well. And Sicily too many times to recall. But Sardegna, for some reason that boat has passed me by.

For one, I’d like to go with someone who really knows the island. Not a canned tour. The language is different; the customs are foreign to me. As one of my mainland friends once said, “Those islanders, they’re different.”

Those islanders, they’re different – four words that mean so much and so little at the same time. It recalls that oft quoted phrase, “A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” From where I perch, Sardegna is all of that.

And I think that is an apt description of the wines. Whereas Sicily is a cornucopia of flavors and styles, the Sardinian wine that does escape the island and come to other ports seems restricted and even more conservative. One or two red grapes and one or two white. Maybe three. Sicily and most of the South have this varied palette of grapes and flavors, maybe too many, maybe too confusing to the average Joe. But exciting and interesting to those of us who see it as an adventure, not a chore. I like the diversity. But I don’t see that in wines from Sardegna, in my experience. I see a little of the Tuscan influence, but is that a good thing? Again, this is a view from a distance. I’m not issuing an indictment against all wines from Sardegna; perhaps I, as well, don’t get Sardinian wines.

I know from people who come from there that there is wildness to the island that time hasn’t eroded. There is also the fact that parts of Sardegna are the playground of the billionaire club. Perhaps for those folks, a Super Tuscan or a wine made in Sardegna by an important Tuscan producer is the perfect complement to a day at the beach followed by a platter of roasted meats. I’m willing to see the benefits to having a scenario like this.

I guess what I am saying is that I need to take a look, a bit closer and deeper, and see for myself, if there is something about the wines of Sardegna that can be, to me, as compelling as the wines from Sicily, from Campania, or anywhere in the South.

Maybe one of my next trips to Italy should include Sardegna. I’ll keep an ear to the ground for possible communiqués from the wine gods.

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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Photograph by Pierre Jahan/Archives des museés nationaux

For as long as I can remember there have been oblique encounters between Italophiles and Francophiles. In years past, it seemed there was always that expert in French wine who wanted to display his prodigious erudition for all to see. It was more oppressive than impressive.

Recently the tides have turned. Barolo is the new Burgundy. Brunello is getting its groove on, and raincoated and umbrella’d Bordelaise sniffle and sneeze in response to their sunny Tuscan cousins. It’s a bit of a parlor game for the ruling class.

My first foray in France was preceded by a harrowing road trip from Italy. Venice, Tuscany, Cinque Terre, all things bright and beautiful about Italy and wine were laid before me and I took the bait. And then I was dragged to Southern France.

All those years, hearing stories from French collectors and sommeliers (the ones with the dangling tastevins) I had a totally different idea about what to expect. When I got there, I thought, “Wait, these people aren’t that different from the Italians I just left. They appear to like cheese a bit more. But what’s the big deal?”

And I’ve been saying that (to myself) going on 30 years now.

My field research, not at all scientific, has shown to me that the French and the Italians, in the vineyards, have a lot more in common than not. They work as hard. They have the same concerns, about their government, their religion, their money, their children, their mortality.

Yes, their wines are a little different. But really, not so much as I had been led to believe, early on, by those important people. Mind you, never did I get that impression from any of my French colleagues in the wine world. Never. It was always from the outside, from someone who wanted to appear as "important" and "serious" about their wine connoisseurship.

That said, I’ve been thinking the Italians have a debt to the French. I’m not sure they can ever repay it. I don’t think it’s that kind of deal. But I believe it’s worthwhile to ponder over a few of high spots.

The appeal of beauty is universal. If one makes a beautiful wine, does it really know any boundaries? Beauty is. The French and the Italians, in my experience, take pleasure in beautiful things. And by the looks of it, in fashion, in art, in music, in food, beautiful things between these two countries flow back and forth, not stopping to have their passports stamped.

Because of that, if the French make something more beautiful, the Italians notice. And some of them are motivated by that. Is it a competitive thing? Is it jealousy? Is it inspiration? Who cares, if more beauty comes from it.

Let’s talk about competition. Have you ever sat down at a table with a gaggle of winemakers? What do they do? Well, if there’s food and wine on it, they do the same as the rest of the folks on earth. They eat and drink. They also appreciate, in measures. Again, this is my experience. I don’t care who it is, from wherever in the world. There’s always the chance to learn something and take it back to the workshop of course. But the aspect of pleasure and community supersedes any competitive urge.

Stewardship. Whether it be art or potatoes, are the French not great stewards? Of the vine, in the fields, they live with Nature in the same way Italians do. They understand resources are finite. And when it comes to precious things, like water, like soil, like great art, they don’t appear to want to save only things French. I haven’t made a huge study of this, but I have seen enough interplay in winemaking circles to see the ongoing dialogue and collaboration. Imagine, two countries, which at this time produce roughly half of all the world’s wine. Why wouldn’t they work together? The reality is, they do. More than we know. And definitely more than the snotty oenophiles of old ever realized.

A million years, ago, I’m driving an elderly French winemaker, a student of Emile Peynaud, to an experimental vineyard in far North Texas. He wanted to see the place where some of the rootstock was born, rootstock which helped save France from the scourge of phylloxera. On the way there we were talking about my family roots and he mentioned that he had many good friends in the wine industry in Sicily. I knew that there was a connection between Palermo and France, historically. But I asked him why. “Oh, we did a lot of business with the Sicilians. Grapes, finished wine. Mainly for Vermouth production.” How many years have we been drinking French wine not knowing there was a little Italian DNA inside those bottles? Didn’t seem to bother us. I once told that story to one of those tastevin-swaggering olde-school sommeliers. He dismissed it saying, “Bah, bulk crap for the peasants!”

Looking back, the Italian wine we make now, so much of it is better, for so many reasons. And in no small part, because the French influence was there. Yes, but also because of collaboration, the sharing of ideas and thoughtful husbandry.

I know many of my readers are in France, can tell when I look at who is coming to these pages. Inquisitive nature doesn’t stop at any border. Wine travels without a visa. Beauty sails through customs.

Thank you France and thank you my French colleagues, for your work and for your care. Because you do what you do that way you do it, Italy is a better place. And, I’m sure the Italians would also remark the inverse is also correct. And they would also be correct. You’re both on top of the wine world, high-fiving one another. And the wine world is richer for your continued efforts.

written and photographed (with the exception of the first photograph) by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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TEXSOM and On the Wine Train in Italy have something in common - we both started about the same time - and hopefully those who noticed such things have seen growth in both of them. I for one, now have a reason to enjoy August in Texas. That's more than enough. But as well, the conviviality, the friendships, the dedication to wine and the people involved make this a must-attend event for me.

For my part, today I am presenting, along with my talented co-presenter, Shelley Lindgren, an early Sunday morning (sold-out) seminar on Chianti Classico. Lots of blood, sweat and tears have gone into making Chianti Classico a better wine than most people understand it to be. With a little luck, Shelley and I will convert a few more. Time for a little Chianti Classico Sunday School, eh?

(For those interested, here's the link to the TEXSOM 2015 Chianti Classico presentation - as a slideshow)

In the meantime, I'm terrifically busy and haven’t had much time to think about a new blog post (forgive me). So I will recap some of the TEXSOM posts throughout the years. Take a ride in the way-back machine - if you're not here with this fine group of wine professionals, you can time trip a little from the comfort of your (cooler than outdoors Texas) room, wherever you may be.

Thanks for reading!

10 Years of Texsom ~ 2005-2014- Friday, August 08, 2014

La Notte di San ~~Lorenzo~~ Guido- Thursday, August 11, 2011

TexSom 2011 - Slideshow - Thursday, August 18, 2011

Serge Hochar Blows My Mind – Again! - Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Make ~~Wine~~ Mine ~~Natural~~ Real - Thursday, August 20, 2009

Ferragosto ~ Southfork Style - Sunday, August 16, 2009

Kim Stout looking after husband Guy Stout, M.S. and Larry O'Brian, M.S.

Texsom 2008 ~ Hill Country Ho-down - Sunday, August 17, 2008

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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(L-R) Louis, Alfonso, Mary & Julia Cevola - Palermo ca. 1919

I’m stealing time right now. There’s a 2,100 word, multi-segment piece on the desk that needs polishing, with a deadline in a few days. And another two stories in the works, with a third to come. And there’s the day job, which isn’t the Monday to Friday kind. Along with that, my family has an inordinate amount of elderly folks to check in with, ages 97-101. And we lost one this week.

My Aunt Mary, whom we all called “Auntie.” She was the last of the small nuclear family my dad was a part of. With her now gone, a period ends. Now it’s on folks like me, to remember, to recast and to rekindle. Aunt Mary and I would talk from time to time. I would address her in Italian, she loved that. And she would ask me where my travels had taken me. I’d often call her from Italy and see if she could guess where I was. She and her husband Lou loved to travel the world, taking their golf clubs with them and playing golf, eating, drinking wine and gazing at art. My uncle was in the wine business, so he had an appreciation for finer wine. And someone in his family was an art dealer. They knew about the finer things in life.

Piana degli Albanese - 1971

I’d occasionally press my Aunt Mary on details about Palermo and the small village our family came from that spoke the Albanian language and worshipped according to the Orthodox practice. She knew some of the language and she had all the stories. And she’d help guide me through the labyrinth that any family is, telling me who to talk to and who to avoid. She had a sharp wit and she lived a long and good life. I have another hole in my heart. I will miss her.

And this wine blog thing? On the wine trail in Italy is coming up on ten years. In that time, the way we communicate has flattened and widened horizontally. There are many more platforms now, such that a blog seems a little antiquated to me. Pictures, a story, some comments and the stats. And do it again.

Southern California - ca. 1924

There are those who have fallen off. Looking at an old blogroll, there are many bloggers who just don’t have it in them anymore. Some of them have gone on to writing for publications, online and print. Some have written books. Some have had babies and started businesses. And there are those who are just starting their wine blogs. To them I say: Bring us good stories and make them your stories. Just do that and the rest will follow.

Should a blog be a be-all and end-all? For some, it might be. For those who need to generate income to live, a blog cannot sustain one in these times. There’s too much free content. And ultimately what we are doing on our blogs is volunteering our passion to the world at large.

Dallas - 1918

For my part, it’s part writing lab, part memory dump. I often go back to some post, whether it’s about Mt. Etna or Valpolicella, to refer to it. For now, I don’t have to remember all those things. I’ve planted it in the archives, and as long as the internet doesn’t remove it, I can access it.

This wine blog is now my own personal Wiki. Maybe there’s the making of a book in those 1,199 posts (this is number 1,200). At this point I’m not too concerned with that. I still have a lot of work to do in the day job.

Old California - ca. 1929

Speaking of that, last night I witnessed one of those “seldom seen” events. I was in a restaurant with family celebrating a birthday. When we all said our good byes outside, they went one way and we headed to the other side of the building, where the car was parked. Under the patio cover, a group of maybe 14 young people were sitting at a long table, eating pizza. And drinking Italian wine. It moved me, because we wouldn’t have seen this 25 years ago. Bottles of Prosecco, and rosè wine from Sicily. Chianti Classico and Vermentino from Tuscany. No, this was a result of many years of a developing movement to permeate a more Mediterranean culture into the arid high plains of Texas. No disco, no bright, shiny clothes. No chrome and leather and the big hair Dallas is known for. That was one of those moments that made the work of the last 25 years worthwhile. Just a group of laid back young adults eating and drinking as if it was Ferragosto and they were on vacation at Forte dei Marmi.

Wedding of Mary Cevola and Louis Oliva - California - ca. 1938

In loving memory of Mary (Cevola) Oliva

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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It happens like this every year. It’s been a great month at the beach. Now we must pack up our belongings, shut down the cabana and head back to the vineyards for harvest. Summer vacation is over.

All those long, hot, lazy days, lounging in the hammock, while the scirocco caresses a sunburned leg. Falling asleep in the middle of the day, because I can. And because, in the next few months, I’ll be working overtime. There’s the harvest and the winemaking and then I must get on the road, to America, to Sweden, to China, to India - to sell the wine. Wine dinners, wine tastings, hotel rooms, airplanes, these will come soon. But not before the harvest.

Such is the life of the modern winemaker in Italy. Gone are the preparations for the winter, putting up the tomatoes and the fruit preserves, hunting for one more boar or maybe something bigger, to put away meat for the winter. Now we must hunt for our customers, as the world for selling wine has become ever so much more competitive and cutthroat.

But for one more evening, let me open another bottle of rosé, let the breeze come up from the south or the north, or wherever it is coming from; let me linger over this bottle of wine while the sun sets. One last time.

Summer is ending. Harvest begins. So it goes. And so we go with it. As always.

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

wine blog + Italian wine blog + Italy W

The view from the Lagoons at Vermilion, Ohio is a bit intimidating. Sheltered from Lake Eyrie, this bedroom community of Cleveland is one of those places in America that if people who don’t live here they probably don’t think about. There’s a million of these places in the States. What makes it so intriguing is that people live their lives here, cut their lawns, take their boats out to the lake, on the 4th of July, on Labor Day weekend, and live as though they are the center of the universe. Which indeed, they are. As we are all, living within our very own microcosms. Peaceful, placid, bring your boat up to the dock, park it and come in for a multi-course wine dinner. Why not?

Why not indeed? And so it was this past week, I flew to Cleveland, where it was 20 degrees cooler than Dallas. That was a bonus right off. And all in the course of a week’s worth of work, making the world safe for Italian wine.

La Fiorita's Natalie Oliveros and Matt Mars open wines

The wine dinner, planned in January, was to be at Chez Francois, hailed by Evelyn Theiss of the Cleveland Plain Dealer as “the high-end destination for haute cuisine in Northeast Ohio", Chef John D’Amico and co-owner Matt Mars have been bringing their passion for 29 years at Chez Francois, their French restaurant.

What are two Italian-Americans doing running a French dining spot in the suburbs of Cleveland? How did any of us get here? The reality is, 30 years ago, French cooking was at the top, and all the rest, in America, placed a distant second. That’s just the way it was. Or that’s the way many positioned themselves. But they slipped their influences in, whether it was Italian or Spanish, or Greek. And as things progressed, as we all can see now, French food made room for the others, if not by abdication then by evolution.

Chef John D'Amico

Now Chez Francois is a bastion of "fresh right from the farm," whether the food has a French sounding name or an Italian. And does it really matter? What matters is the food be wholesome and tasty and everything is in balance. Chef John D’Amico works and works and it appears he loves, loves, loves what he does. He took me into his tiny kitchen, his staff all scrubbed and polite. Tight ship. No leaks. Grinders. And we had 110 folks outside who were coming in, all at the same time, and all hungry. Hats off to chef and his staff, I ate his food, everything was spot-on, as perfect as it can get, and, I daresay, it was that way for the other 109 folks as well, and all the diners who have come here for the past 30 years.

Matt Mars – what can you say? A quintessential “front of the house” man. They lost the combination for guys like Matt years ago. He represents a tradition in dining that defies trend and fashion. Matt is “present” on the floor, at all times. What a pleasure to spend a night on his floor, with his staff and his clients in this dreamy little backwater hamlet that helped to transform dining in America. Ohio, you say? And a suburb of Cleveland, no less? Yes, and yes, and yes again.

The wines ranged from an aperitif wine from Friuli (Joe Bastianich’s bisexual rosé) to a trio of whites, A Pecorino from the Marche, a Pinot Bianco from Alto-Adige and a Vermentino from Sardegna. Followed by a trio of Tuscan reds from Tolaini estate in Castelnuovo Berardenga and a Vino Nobile. After which a duo of Tuscan reds, a Toscana Rosso and a Brunello 2007 from La Fiorita. Owner Natalie Oliveros was in for the dinner and she brought with her some 2004 and 2001 Brunello for this well-healed crowd of wine lovers and collectors.

And they bought. And bought. And bought some more. With all the craziness on Wall Street this past week, our little backwater hamlet was socking away wine for the winter. Italian wine has caught the big wave – so good to see after so many years of pounding the streets.

Chef D’Amico and front man Mars aren’t some lightweight backwater fly by night outfit – They’re big league, all the way. And they run with the heavies. A dinner 20 years ago showcased wines from the 1945 vintage. Wolfgang Puck flew in to cook, Master Sommelier Larry Stone arrived to preside over the wines (including a very questionable Jeroboam of 1945 Romanée Conti). I would have loved to been there that night.

All of our wines this week were verifiably authentic. Maybe someday empty bottles of La Fiorita will be re-purposed on faraway shores, but not here, not tonight.

If you ever find yourself in Cleveland, make a note to get a reservation and take the 45 minute drive to Vermilion (bring a jacket if you want to get in). It is a treasure spot for the rise of food and wine in America and D’Amico and Mars, by virtue of their commitment and showing up, day after day, in a business that is damn hard on the feet and the knees (and marriages) have been rock steady – call if French, call it Continental, call it whatever you like – when you eat the food you’ll know where the inspiration came from. Two Italian-Americans pursuing a dream, some call it the American dream. Call it what you want – I call it transformational.

Bravo Jon and Matt - Bravissimo!

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

wine blog + Italian wine blog + Italy W

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