Reprise: Fathers and Sons

from the archives

Great-Grandfather Assuntino Luigi Cevola in Palermo - 1890's

I never knew my Great-Grandfather, Assuntino, but I met him, thirteen years after he died in Palermo, in 1971. I was feeling sick and was in his bed, in the house on Via Roma, 97. It was August and sweltering. I had eaten something, I think it was an omelet, and it didn’t set well with me. I was going in and out of sleep, sweating, the heat and fumes from the busy street, floors below; it was a confluence of moments. And then, in a dream, I think, he appeared. “What are you doing in my bed?” he asked. “I am sick and resting in it,” I answered. “Who are you?” he questioned again. “I am Alfonso.” He looked at me, “You are not my son.” I returned the look. “No, I am your great-grandson.” He gave that sideways stare he was known for and replied, “Va bene, you can stay.” And he disappeared.

I often have conversations with family members who are no longer alive. In fact, some of the best conversations I have had were with family member who have passed away. They are easier, less stressed, less busy. They understand the concept of eternal reconciliation.

Grandfather Alfonso Cevola in America - 1910's

My grandfather, he was such an enigma. He looked to me more Japanese than Italian. But then his father could have just come from Genghis Khan’s campfire. My grandfather really had the charmed life. A woman to look after his every need, cleaning, great cook, raising the kids. And he would go about his business and be home in time for dinner. She would make him breakfast, and lunch. I often wonder how my grandfather thought of my grandmother. I often wonder about women, too, who treat their husbands like little boys, seeing after their every need. I wouldn’t know about that, save for the brief time when I was young and cute and my mom and sisters would look after me.

Father Louis and Grandfather Alfonso Cevola in California - late 1920's

For the last half of my life, I have raised a son and buried a wife. Today my son had to work. We got together Friday night and made a great dinner. Bistecca Fiorentina, baked potatoes, roasted corn and a sumptuous green salad. With bottles of Soave, Sangiovese and Syrah. So we had our moment.

Father Louis Cevola in California - 1932

I loved being a dad when my son was young. I loved doing all the things that I thought a son would want. I pulled it from the pages of my childhood. My dad was a salesman, and always working. We never took a vacation. The few days we took off, we’d end up looking at real estate and going to restaurants where the bacon wouldn’t be cooked well enough and the hash browns weren’t brown enough. I guess he had his demons. But I vowed I’d be there for my son. I remember coaching the soccer team, though to this day I have no idea how soccer really works. When I was in little league baseball, my mom would be there in the stands, and in other times throwing the ball with me. My dad was making deals. My dad, the deal maker. Big deal. He missed out on his son’s life. He missed out on his life. He was so busy running around that before he knew it, kaplooey, he was dead at 69. My grandfather lived seven years past the death of his son. He died when he was 97. Great grandfather Assuntino made it one month shy of 86.

Grandfather Alfonso, author Alfonso, son Rafael and father Louis Cevola in California - late 1970's

So I really never knew any of the fathers in my life. Except for the dream, my great grandfather and I were separated by the ocean and time. My grandfather really didn’t have any contact with me other than basic ones. No advice, no talks, no intellectual connection. My dad, he was a philosopher after the testosterone died down and he mellowed. But until then he was an emotional whirlwind. He was always warning me about women. Too bad he didn’t slow down a little, like his dad, and stick around for me and his grandson.

Son Rafael and author Alfonso Cevola in Texas - early 1980's

My son, who knows if he’ll carry the name forward? It doesn’t look like my life will be one that will be populated with adoring (or otherwise) grandchildren. So it goes.

Son Rafael Cevola in his clan kilt - early 2000's

When it is all said and done, what have any of the fathers before me left for the future family members? There are pictures, tons and tons of pictures. And films. My father wrote a book about world history, when he was a young boy. He did leave us that. But what is it that they would have wanted to leave for their future sons? I really cannot say. I don’t know. I look at the pictures and stare at them, and try to ascertain their dreams. But I really don’t know what they were looking for.

Son Rafael Cevola the fire-breather - early 2000's

Maybe they were just looking to get through the day with enough food and money and safety. Basic needs. But I really cannot say. I wish life would have worked out where I had been able to really dig into their minds, and they into mine. But they are gone now. Only me and my son remain standing in the New World.

Son Rafael and author Alfonso Cevola in Ireland - 2006

However passionate, however rebellious the heart that rests in a tomb, the flowers that have sprung up over it look peacefully at us with their innocent eyes; they speak to us not only of eternal repose, of that perfect repose of "indifferent" nature ; they speak to us also of eternal reconciliation, and of a life which cannot end.
-Ivan Sergevich Turgenev ~ Fathers and Sons

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

In Search of an American Burger with a Sicilian Surrealist in a Forsaken and Deserted City

In continuation from here...

 

 

After the dinner Giorgio’s wife made for us, we sat around in his drawing room sipping on Cynar. It was August and Rome was stifling hot, humid and deserted by all but the tourists and the stalwart Romanisti. It was nice, though, for it felt like family and was very familiar. Giorgio was sketching something near me or behind me, I don’t know what. But he was intent on capturing something in the light of the room. I was exhausted from a day of roaming around the city and had a few more days before I was to go back home and to college at Santa Clara.

On Photography: No Sunsets. Not Yet

Since migrating away from the wine trade, I have been able to devote more time to a long-time love of mine, photography. Of late, I have participated in two workshops with masterful photographers. The experience has rejuvenated me and lifted me into a new life of creativity that I haven’t felt in decades.

Highway 29 Revisited: Just Leave the Door Open

I'm walking around a wine shop. Filled with wines from all over the world. The place is abuzz with sales reps and suppliers waiting to sample their wines with the buyers. Customers dot the store here and there, a mix of ages. I look around and wonder what wine each one of the shoppers will settle on for their wine tonight or this weekend. Or maybe beer, or spirits or some newfangled ready to drink trendy concoction. Or maybe not?

What drives the upcoming generation to delve into wine? Are there gatekeepers trying to curate their journey, their selection, their way forward? Was it like that when I was young and new to the interest in alcoholic beverages? What is different now and how much easier or harder is it for the wine drinkers of the future to get past the gates and the gatekeepers, let alone the economic barriers?

Remembrances: Some posts age like Brunello, some like Vin Santo.

 from the archives...

On Italy, and what it does to a person

March 2011 · Italy: Without a Doubt

"When it all gets to be a little too much, when the heat of the day goes from tepid to searing, when all this running around and shuffling and commotion becomes just so much noise and distraction, I pull in. I want my own little vision of Italy to wield its power over me... My Italy isn't perfect, but it's damn well near, and it works just fine for me."

Read the full post: https://acevola.blogspot.com/2011/03/italy-without-doubt.html

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On seeing and living

August 2010 · Remembering Herman Leonard

"New Orleans, summertime, pre-Katrina, a crowded Italian restaurant, Maximo's, and I'm sitting at the bar. The owner, Jason, is pouring Champagne, Krug, from magnums to a large table and topping off my glass and another fellow's whom he affectionately calls Herman. Just a couple of guys sitting at a bar, drinking Champagne, waiting for the night to develop... My takeaway from Herman, and the treasured body of his life's work, is that there's seeing and there's living. Herman saw, but Herman lived a wonderful American life."

Read the full post: https://acevola.blogspot.com/2010/08/remembering-herman-leonard.html

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On mothers (in honor of my mom's birth day, May 24)

May 2016 · Mother's (last) Day

"She told me last week, 'I've had enough, I'm done here. I'm ready to go.' And she slipped away peacefully in her sleep surrounded by loving family members... I'm going to miss our calls. On my way home, in traffic, I'd call her and we'd talk about our day. She was a great listener and an even better sympathizer. She was in my court, she had my back."

Read the full post: https://acevola.blogspot.com/2016/05/mothers-last-day_8.html

 

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

wine blog +  Italian wine blog + Italy W

Taste the Island. Live the Story. Read the Press Release.

Ecce Homo

Another press release arrived in my inbox, this one from Sicily. Assovini Sicilia, the island's wine producers association, wanted me to know that their 22nd annual Sicilia en Primeur had just wrapped in Palermo. One hundred journalists from around the world. Fifty-six wineries. Over a thousand labels. And, inevitably, a conference. The theme: "Taste the Island. Live the Story." Somewhere in there, presumably, wine.

Sicily's Other Master Class

A master sommelier flew into town last month and put on a master class in Sicilian wine. He was good — prepared, a little nervous, which in my experience is a healthy sign. He didn't exude false confidence. The wines were well chosen, and all things considered, it was a successful event. I'm grateful to the folks from Wines from Sicilia DOC for bringing this to Dallas. It shows an evolution in the way Italy presents itself to the American public. All good.

It got me thinking about Sicily again. Which doesn't take much.

Italianità

I have been thinking about this word for a long time.

In October of 2009, I wrote a piece I called “Paralyzed in Paradise” — a fever dream, composed at 4 AM in Dallas, somewhere between sleep and the dread of a workday ahead. Italy was falling apart from within, I wrote, and couldn’t see it. The wines had too much wood, too much Merlot, too much of everything except what had made them worth caring about in the first place, and in my dream I burned the barriques, exiled the consultants, starved the PR firms on zibibbo raisins until the poison leeched out of their press releases. And then the alarm rang out in the early morning fog of autumn.

The Real Estate Racket Behind Your Restaurant Wine List

Once upon a time, it was enough to put a good selection of wines on your wine list and have a stable of equally attractive wines by the glass, to serve your clients and hopefully make some money. Over time, the idea of a wine list has morphed and changed from making a wine list to “curating” one. What hasn’t been discussed is one of the alternatives to making a wine list more profitable – and that is how to turn the “real estate” of a wine placement into an annuity that keeps paying whether the guests buy the wine or not. Enter the gatekeeper: it’s “Pay to Play” time!

Relax, Don't Do It: Franco goes to Vinitaly

Franco was a good soldier of the vine. Every year he would trudge off to Verona to go to the Vinitaly wine show. Every year he would talk with wineries, importers, farmers, winemakers, families of winery owners, at their booths and stalls, in the many pavilions that encompass Vinitaly. And every year he would answer their questions, listen to their concerns, and field their queries. But this year was different, Franco relayed. This year something in the air at Vinitaly had changed. America was no longer the shiny city on the hill, the beacon of light, the answer to their quest to make their wines popular and successful in the world many of their relatives fled to a hundred years ago in search of a better world and opportunities. This year the Italians were wary, suspicious even, of the possibility of future dealing with an America they could trust and rely upon. And it all came down to one question: What is Trump going to say today, who is he going to raise his fist at today, which politician or person will be the target of his ceaseless anger and grievance? And that is what Franco faced for four long days, under the bright lights and in the noisy exhibition halls of Verona. Behold the 58^th edition of Vinitaly. 

The Chianti Classico that Belongs in the Brunello Section

Of late, I’ve noticed an uptick in interest in Chianti Classico. And not the rock bottom, straw-covered bottles that dominate the curlicue culture of TikTok and YouTube. For one, while in my local Italian grocery store — where I spend time and occasionally offer help to hurried and befuddled guests — we always seem to end up right in front of the Chianti section, of which there is a plethora of choices. It can seem confusing to the point where someone just grabs a nearby bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo and heads for the Italian sausage counter. I get it. It can be overwhelming. 

Something Eric Asimov wrote recently in his column, The Pour, in the NY Times — How to Find Great Values in Wine, April 2, 2026:

“Good producers from Chianti Classico are making beautiful wines. Prices might begin at $30 to $50, but these are versatile wines, pleasurable now but with the potential to age and evolve. Compared with similarly priced bottles from elsewhere, I think they can be excellent values.”

This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned Chianti Classico — it seems to be a recurring motif in his reporting. I followed links on the column, down a rabbit hole. He’s been on this beat since at least 2019, finding in these wines a “lightness, purity and eloquence” that “sets them apart.”

Chicken Parm with Alfredo: The Italian Version of Chicken Fried Steak with Cream Gravy?

There it was, on a little whiteboard at my gym. Each trainer had listed their favorite food. I was expecting things like "açaí bowls" and "grilled salmon." The new trainer — someone I don't know yet, someone whose job it is to make people healthier — had written: Chicken Parm with Alfredo.

I stood there longer than I should have.

Chicken Parm with Alfredo. Said with the same reverence one might reserve for bistecca alla Fiorentina, or a bowl of pasta e fagioli made by someone's grandmother in Umbria. A favorite food. Not a guilty pleasure. Not a "once in a while" thing. A favorite.

I was gob-smacked - I thought about it all the way home.

Before Vinitaly: What Makes Italian Wine Italian

In these times, as in many times, there is the pull between appropriation and inspiration. On the wine trail in Italy, there is also this phenomenon. Winemaking styles fluctuate between the two views, as does so much in the wine world. From the manner in which we trellis our vines to the way we decide to graphically label the final product, there is this constant pull between that which emanates from within and that which influences from without.

Think about Nebbiolo-based wines from Piedmont, for example. The Barolo Boys of the 1980s looked to Burgundy and decided barriques were the future. The natural wine movement borrowed from Georgian qvevri traditions and Northern California iconoclasm in equal measure. Italians have been affected by outside influences from the early days of Rome, when the Greek aesthetic swayed the sculptors and artists to follow in the footsteps of their neighbors. But also, along the way, new expressions and modalities came about. And so, Italian wine has been changed — and changed itself — repeatedly.

I asked my AI assistant Claudio to analyze my wine cellar.

With the onrush of everything AI in these moments, there was an article recently by Eric Asimov in the New York Times entitled “A.I. Is Coming for the Sommeliers.” It dovetailed neatly with a project I have been doing at home with my AI assistant, Claudio, who I tasked with analyzing my wine collection. The exercise was straightforward enough: I uploaded my inventory — some 250 bottles accumulated over 45 years — and asked Claudio for a deep dive. Which wines to drink now, which were at or near peak, which merited more time in the cellar, and which had probably given up the ghost. Claudio went to work and produced a spreadsheet laying out the potential and possibilities in store for me. After going over the results, I realize I have my work cut out for me, especially in the next two years or so. It seems I have a preponderance of “drink now” wines, and by my reckoning I will have to open a bottle a week for the next two years, come hell or high water. It presents a bit of a dilemma, albeit a first-world one, in that most of the wines in question are red, and here we are in March in Texas already registering 90+℉ outside. Not exactly the stuff of steaks and stews, hearty meals, that kind of thing. So I have asked Claudio to lay out a schedule for the next two years, plotting a course in which to open these bottles before the wines or the humans involved get much older.

The Miracle of Montalcino ~ A Master Class from a Young Master – Pt.II

In the last week or so, I've been mulling over why Brunello latched onto the American wine imagination as easily and rapidly as it did. The fine wine world here was so French-driven until the 1970s, when Napa Valley took honors at that famous blind tasting in Paris and swept the imagination — and the trust funds — over to the west coast. I grew up on California wines, produce of my native state, and witnessed that excitement firsthand. To have it happen in one's lifetime was a blessing. To then see a similar trajectory ignite in Tuscany not long after — that's like winning the lottery twice, for a wine person. And so it was. The miracle of Montalcino.