For those still hanging on to an identification that no longer fits?

(homage to Gianni Di Venanzo)

Terry Theise has a new piece up wrangling for the defense of "fine wine" as a category. His method is to sort wine into three tiers — schlock, good, fine — not by how it tastes but by why it was made, and whether the wine respected the person drinking it. It's an idiosyncratic approach, but I’ve learned that tangling with wine writers over their semantic intentions is, as we say in these parts, like pissing in a dust storm in West Texas — everybody gets soiled and no one goes home happy.

While Terry has been busy developing his taxonomy, I've been wondering about something else: what happens to the person who built an identity on that taxonomy, once the taxonomy stops organizing their days?

Vinitaly Books Passage on a Propagandist's Ship

There's a press release sitting in my inbox announcing that the Amerigo Vespucci — Italy's training ship, the so-called most beautiful ship in the world — is sailing into New York Harbor for the Fourth of July. It'll anchor off New Jersey, join fifty-some tall ships in a parade up the Hudson, dock at Pier 86, and spend a week hosting Italy's defense minister, its navy chief, the Carabinieri commander-general, the ambassador to the U.S., the mayor of Genoa, and a delegation that reads like the guest list for a state funeral. The America's Cup trophy is flying in from New Zealand to sit on the deck for a photo. The UN's Chiefs of Police Summit is convening below decks. It is, by any measure, a genuinely big deal — 250 years of American independence, a navy turning out its flagship to mark it, real history happening on real water.

And somewhere in the middle of all that pageantry, on Sunday afternoon at 3 p.m., Veronafiere is giving a PowerPoint about Vinitaly.USA. Woo-hoo!

After Drops of God: What Wine Means to Me in 2026

Of late, wine has been coursing through my thoughts. Not the alcohol — that's not what this is about. No — it's what wine did to my life, and how I have changed through it. I recently watched a TV series in which wine was the anchor, the search for the greatest wine. You might have heard of it, Drops of God. I know, I came late to this show. The way wine is portrayed in film and television seems so performative, draped in 21st-century airs of importance and branding. For me, wine was livelihood, and in a way, I was pressed into service by necessity.

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.

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.