These two remind me of someone...
I was sitting on my mom’s couch watching the vintage movie Laura, starring the timeless beauty Gene Tierney, and drinking a glass of Etna Bianco, when it seemed like I slipped into one of my alternate universes. After all, here I am in Southern California, doing my National Guard duty for Dr J, who is slowly and happily getting sluiced into the vortex between Texas and Louisiana. It’s the least I could do for one of my fellow Californiano’s.
But something about the Terre Nere Bianco, a blend of Carricante, Inzolia, Grecanico and Cataratto that was such a perfect wine, I found myself gulping it. Mom had made some broccoli rabe with some fresh (and local) garlic we had gotten from the farmers market in Irvine. She also brought out some baby clams, a light meal, not quite the extravagance of last week. But that’s the wonderful thing about the wine trail; it doesn’t have to be a 5.8 on the Richter scale. A simple plate of clams, some greens and a wonderful glass of Sicilian white wine will do quite nicely, even here in So-Cal.
I have opted to shop for wine and vegetable during this Black Friday weekend. That, and catching a little sun and reflection off the Pacific Ocean. One of the perfect days on the West Coast, even while I am planning a late December sortie into Southwestern Louisiana in search of music, hot sauce and boudin. It all relates to the temperament and sensitivity of an Italian born in America from Calabresi and Siciliani.
I took my mom to a farmers market a mere 6 miles from her place. She was lamenting that at 94 she is running out of friends. You wouldn’t have known it as we walked outdoors in the cool sun. Everywhere we went, people talked to her like she was the mayor, a natural extrovert, which she disputes. Fresh squash blossoms and Satsuma oranges, I was walking in the corridors of my DNA’s childhood.sm.jpg)
I am having a little quandary with this Sicilian winery, Terre Nere as it is called. I am wondering why I like these wines so much. And, are they spoofilated?I’m pretty confident that, in the vineyard the grapes for these wines are proprio Siciliani, no homage to wine growing from other parts of the world. Mt Etna has its own matrix working, so that is the theme dominant in those parts.
In the winemaking process, what I am finding is one of two things, for both the white and the red wines. They have either been so deceptively well made according to some secret handshake with the wine devils. Or, they have been left to their own devices to be what they are as the wine gods have intended from day one. I truly hope it is that latter, as I am so stoked about that way these wines interface with my taste buds and seamlessly, without any hesitation, merge with my pleasure center. I am smitten, by the white, by the red, and if there is a rose, I am sure I will fall into its trance as well.That’s all from Camp California for now. On to Paso!
I was itching to open a bottle of the 
Yesterday we popped a bottle or two and walked around the place hawking like we were selling the cure-all. Not too bad, very Merlot-esque, very fruity, a label my mother would love. What’s not to like?
One complaint. The gift pack has this kitschy ceramic decanter to go along with the product. Now anyone who has gone to the Amalfi coast knows there is a preponderance of mighty fine cermaiche. Vietri is one of the towns along the way. They even have a 
What else? Dr. J has been documenting 
Before then. what? Back from Austin last week I stopped in Taylor Texas to try the BBQ at the 
Back in Dallas we took the young ones to the 
And that leaves me with my last crop in the garden and that would be the Pequins that we harvested over the weekend. The little peppers are hotter than a two-peckered dog in a city pound, as we say in Tejas. And that is my story.
I have a pile of books from one of my mentors, who like Lou, has passed on. His stories were like guideposts to me. I treasure those stories, for they truly set me on the course. And while I view all this from a serene eddy in flyover country, it offers me the perspective of one who can see all this from a distance. And that puts it into focus.
So as I continue to roam about the world of wine, whether it be in Italy or America, I see that some of the most important things in my cellar are my relationships with people who will understand that we are not in competition with each other, we are only in competition with that person we can become. And that becoming is in a constant state of change and refinement. But the wines and the friends make the journey so much more rewarding than any pile of money or book deal could ever promise.
Not good news from the front lines of the selling game. From what I am seeing, getting to the end of the year unscathed will be highly uncertain. We’re in the thick of things now, the deep trough, the slog through the sludge. Forget about keeping your mukluks sparkly clean, we’re going into the uncharted terroir of the slime. And it ain’t autochthonous. Or archetypical.
Funny how wine geeks love to talk about the feel of the soil. But when it gets soggy and tracks through the house, folks be singing another tune. Until the end of the year, the wine business is joining the rest of the economy in just getting through these days.
I feel for a friend, who has recently taken the leap to import and self distribute, with containers just showing up. Unknown wines in a time when even things known have slowed down. This is not a good time to be exposed to the elements of the downturn. It’s going to take a lot of street beating, wearing out some of the old shoe leather. Forget about chasing maidens around the primordial ooze.
So the fancy Beatle boots of the dandy salesman, like the three martini lunch, is a sullied white elephant in today’s climate.
Maybe a drill sergeant’s pair of boots would be more suitable for the combat in the streets, Main or Wall. The situation on the ground calls for a little less speculation (and editing of the fantasy-dream sequence) and a little more real time pounding of the concrete. What some of the old bull elephants in the selling game call getting out of the mud bath and trudging into the village. Stay tuned.
When did the search for the Shangri-La of wine go so off track? The history of Italian wine shows us that it was built up over the ages by the monastics, who took care to keep the light burning through some dark and dreary days. Nothing so glamorous then, working the fields in the dark, at 4:00 AM in the biting cold. Year after year. With no love, save the Divine Love, to keep the solitary worker in the field, hopeful for a better day. Hope and faith. Not arrogance.
I went through a wine collection yesterday, one that has been in the works for 30 years. In it many of the bottles were created by people that are long gone. Some of the newer wines, one in particular, A Super Tuscan from a producer in Montalcino, struck me. I don’t know what the owner will do with the wine. It has too much power to be enjoyed. It’s too noisy, wants to lead but doesn’t really need a partner to dance with. I’d say to put it in the ‘drink now’ bin, but I’m not sure it will ever be ready to drink.
Whether it is Tuscany or Campania, Sicily or Friuli, Italian wines are at a crossroads. They have fashioned themselves to be these worldly wines in a universe of other worldly wines, all competing for the attention of the same buyer. And those buyers are looking for the next big thing, whether it is an Ovid from Napa or a Mollydooker or God knows what. Why? When did Ferrari seek to emulate General Motors? Or Ducati chase after Harley Davidson? Still, Italian wine chases after the Shangri La wine crowd.
And if the Italian wine succeeds in becoming the king pin of all wines, then what? Defending a territory that for all purposes doesn’t exist in Italy? That would be the fitting punishment for succeeding in looking away from all that is unique and indigenously wonderful in many of the wines of Italy. It’s not too late to turn back, some of the young winemakers have looked beyond marketing and their Upper West Side flats to embrace their soil. Not glam, but sans arrogance. We can only hope. And work to help those who see this as a time to return to their winemaking as an act of selflessness and true vocation. Sounds almost ecclesiastic. Oh, wouldn’t it be loverly?
My friend Hank Rossi and his wife Phillissa just returned from a two month nomadic trip across Europe, their 
Years ago I had a sculpture teacher in Silicon Valley whose father-in-law was Carlo Rossi. We used to go up to the prof’s house in San Francisco because his wife cooked for us (and she was real pretty), and we always had an endless supply of wine. It was cool.
The Cabernet Couch, just the spot to do some vertical (or horizontal) tastings
So here we are again, the harvest is completed and the new wine is in the barrel. Once more the cycle begins anew, a sequence which we in the wine business live to develop and enjoy. Already we are hearing talk about the miraculous victory of the return, the gathering of the century, the harvest of hope. The bringing in of a new dawn, the hope of a new age.
Today in a little trattoria; a rather immense man, with an even larger ego, walks in and proceeds to sit in the table next to me and my lunch companion, an old pro who has seen it all. This large man is a small distributor and he knows not of the code of professional regard. All the wine in his beat up 30' by 70' stockroom is a small insignificant corner of a warehouse somewhere in the Midwest, forgotten by time or care. But as he has not trodden the path of the ancients, his malfeasance is to ignore the history of his trade and mock those who have paved the Via Appia so that he may pretend to be in the company of those who really give a crap.
Today I saw a group of college students as they were being taken on a tour of one of the big warehouses, in for a little recruitment into our multi-thousand year old trade. How I’d love to have five minutes with them. But since I haven’t been asked, wait, this is my wine blog, I can take five minutes. Or ten.
If you are looking for a place to get a free drink on a Friday morning, you’ve come to the right place. But if you have alcoholic tendencies, this place could be worse than Gitmo for you.
Well, let me tell you. Because I was once there on the outside-looking in. I really didn’t know what to do with my life. I had graduated from a private university and the economy was in the tank. Gas prices were high, home values were crashing, the stock market was a mess and American cars were the pits. But I remember the times I’d drive up Highway 29 in Napa and think what a wonderful little place that was. Or I’d think about the grapes I had picked in Calabria and thought how special it was to sit in a cellar at night with a bunch of cousins who I didn’t understand and they surely didn’t understand me. But after a bottle or two of wine in that musty, balmy old place, a miracle occurred. We started understanding each other. Our global village was born there and to this day I have been under the influence of a power greater than anything I could ever imagine or take credit for creating. In a phrase, I found my place. I belonged. And that gave my life meaning. Greater than the $100 million bucks one of my sad relatives probably just lost. Greater than the fame my college friend Tony once had, a friend who can no longer find it in him to return a phone call from one of his friends before he became famous ( him, not his friend). I am having a Lou Gehrig moment, and I have it often in this crazy old wine business.
Oh, one other thing – find a specialty, be it Port or Bordeaux or naturally made wine or the wines of Campania, just find a way to be seen as having a special niche. And don’t forget to love all the other wines too, for they are all part of the same energy and deserve your respect and honor.
Do that and your “career” will take you anywhere you want to go. And before you know it, you will have been in it for some time and you’ll be walking down a corridor and pass by a group of young folks on the outside looking to get in. And then the large cycle will have made its rounds and you’ll be part of the elite group of folks, from Chaldea in 1000 B.C to Suvereto in 2008.