In Memoriam: Burton Anderson’s Sacred Grove

When I went to bed on Tuesday night, November 10^th, it was pretty much like any other weeknight. As I drifted into sleep—the old cat hugging the crook of my left shoulder and the young dog sidling up to my right leg, his little body warm as a July afternoon—I fell straight to sleep. Sometime during the early morning, I had this odd dream. There was an old man—he looked to be out of an Ingmar Bergman film—and he was stepping into a hot air balloon. It was somewhere in the Tuscan countryside, or it looked like it. Hilly, scruffy in places, manicured in others. He had an outback hat on, and a short-sleeved seersucker shirt. He handed me a box of pencils while placing the ballast outside the gondola, and said, “I’m done with them. Give them to someone who can use them. I’ll see you all on the other side.” And then the dog stirred at my side, let out a gigantic, full-body shake-off. It was time for him to go outside for a pee.

A few days later, I read that Burton Anderson had passed away.

In today’s world, where information rains down upon us like an atmospheric river, it was another reality I lived in when I first opened the book Vino, by Mr. Anderson. I was new to the wine business and Italian wine was a special focus of mine. He told stories about people, brought them alive in those pages, and ignited a spark in many of us that still burns. An avatar, one might call him these days. A ninja, even. He made a few cuts and slices with his sword and changed the world of Italian wine for this young man in flyover country.

I met him once at an event in New York, where he was giving a talk. I thanked him and moved on as the queue was rather long, and after all, it was New York. No time for idle chitchat. He stopped me and asked my name. “Oh, you’re that wine blogger from Texas. I’m thinking of starting a blog. I might need some advice from you down the road.” He knew of me? Who knew?

He unlocked stories 

He didn’t take pictures of himself in front of the Sassicaia property and post them on Instagram, posing as an influencer. He moved stealthily through the Italian landscape and kept a low profile. But he influenced thousands. And did so for years, generations now.

When I want to say what real wine journalism looked like, it’s people like Burton (and Veronelli), out there talking to vintners on the ground, in the cellar and at the kitchen table. Not over a tasting menu in a three-star Michelin restaurant. Not over a 30-year vertical of some Super Tuscan he most likely helped make famous. His landmark book, Vino, is where I first heard about Quintarelli. It’s the book I went back to when I was chasing the ghost of a Gattopardo from Etna. It’s the book that sent me to Queens to find Lou Iacucci in his store and taste Torcolato and Mastroberardino. Walter Speller brought him up without my asking. So did Ian D’Agata. So did Raffaella Guidi Federzoni. That’s what a canon is, I guess, the names nobody has to prompt. I once wrote that Burton lit the match. I meant it. But looking at it now, I used him the way you use a cornerstone: I built on it, I leaned on it, and I seldom stopped to look at it. I was too busy in the moment, building up the Italian wine business in my little corner. Burton opened doors to a wonderful world of Italian wine. That Italy still exists, but it lies under a palimpsest of data, hype and noise. He was the quiet man, typing it out, word by word, day by day. And then he took refuge in the Tuscan countryside to live a quiet life, a happy one, I hope. He’d found his sacred grove of Pomona.

 

For those who’d like to spend a little more time with Burton, here’s The Wines of Italy, which he wrote for the Italian Trade Commission.

link: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1JLS91SutdZZWMfIKGypti0zWnIBU5LQ5/view?usp=sharing

 

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

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