The Call from Montalcino @ 3AM

I had been asleep a few hours. The red Blackberry rang. It was our family friend, Bisanzio, in Montalcino. “Can you divert from Verona to come to Tuscany?" There was a subtle plea in his voice. "They need the help of someone who both is in the Italian wine industry and is also a blogger", he said. “from the US. An authority.”

"Why me?"

"They asked for someone like you. Because you understand both worlds and the powers that be think you can help in steering this Brunello misunderstanding towards a quick resolution."

Bisanzio was a great friend of my uncle, who was in the Italian wine business many years ago. He is highly placed in the inner-circle of business and government in Tuscany, though most people don't know him outside of his sphere of influence. That's the way things work in Italy.

So, I will arrive a little later than usual for Vinitaly. I am packing and leaving for a quick plane to London in the morning and a hopper to Pisa. Selected members of the Italian press will be there, along with journalists from Germany, Holland and Denmark. There will also be Italian and EU officials, along with a bevy of lawyers, and a politician or two.

Apparently there will be a press conference and I have to be there in time for it, which will be on Wednesday at noon, Italian time.

I cannot tell you anymore about what this is about. All I can say, there is a sense of urgency.

I'm going in. Wish me luck.

More after the jump...

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

The Meltdown

Annabella and her friend Lily were waiting for us at the airport. A small car, but ample enough for the four of us with our carry on bags. I had met Lily when she was married to Roberto. That was several years back at Vinitaly. They seemed happy enough then.

Lily was somewhere between 38 and 42, a dangerous time for an Italian woman, married or divorced. She can become anxious and unsettled, like a wild cat in a cage. If married, her husband’s friends can be suspect. If divorced her ex-husband’s friends can be considered provocateurs. Fear, superstition and uncertainty, with life and the future looming ahead, all add up to a powder keg of tension and explosive emotions. Perilous times.

“The first summer a newly divorced Italian woman spends is a test of how she will spend the rest of her life,” a saying goes. Here on Pantelleria she would be removed from the scrutiny of the local people who know her in Sicily. But her inner sentinel would still be on guard. For now it appeared her primary goal was getting as tan as she had been when she first blossomed into a woman at 16.


The airport in Trapani was unavailable for landing. Umberto had a friend in the Italian military, so he called ahead to Pantelleria for the unscheduled landing. The airport in Pantelleria is busier in August than most of the year, but it wasn’t really a problem of traffic. As the private plane touched down the temperature reading outside was 38°C. It was 10:00 AM.

A short drive to the resort went smoothly enough. A little idle chatter and gossip, nothing to sink the teeth into yet. Lily was a student of music and Marsala, her father was a winemaker, mother an opera singer. We were going to taste some of his older wines along with a few others from some of the luminary winemakers of the region. Marco de Bartoli was up in Bukkuram. Salvatore Murana was harvesting his Zibibbo at Mueggen. Donnafugata’s Ben Ryè was being harvested and taken over to Khamma Fuori. So at once a busy time for some, and a time of relaxation for others. And at night everyone would gather and eat and drink and enjoy each others company.

This time of the year they don’t do too many primi's or secondi’s. But being Sicily there was an abundance of dolci; in liquid, in solid and in other guises.


And the cards games. Ever since I watched my grandparents playing Scopa or Briscola, I was fascinated with people spending time playing cards. As a young boy I thought it odd that these old people would spend what few remaining moments they had on earth in pursuit of winning a card game. While my grandparents seemed ancient to me I knew somehow that they wouldn’t always remain so. It frightened me for them that they didn’t realize their folly.

Now I see it was a way for them to relax, unwind, stop the daily chores and duties and take a few breaths. Umberto seemed to enjoy playing with Lily. Both of them were alone, and while Umberto always has this sense of self-sufficiency, someone like Lily would be a match against his hard stone; something could ignite.

Lily was in her post meltdown sequence, according to Annabella. Not interested in men, but definitely interested in parts of them. Conflicted, angry, hurt, vulnerable, cautious. A true Sicilian.

The party at Giorgio’s that Friday. I can’t tell you anything about it, I’m sworn to secrecy. I can tell you what we tasted though.

The winesMarco de Bartoli Marsala Superiore Dieci Anni- 10 years in big oak barrels with the Solera method. 50% Grillo, 50% Inzolia

Marco de Bartoli Marsala Vigna la Miccia Cinque Anni- The wine is aged in small oak barrels for 5 years. 50% Grillo, 50 % Inzolia

Marco de Bartoli Vecchio Samperi- 20 years in old barrels. 70% Grillo, 30% Inzolia

Marco de Bartoli Bukkuram Moscato d`Alessandria (Zibibbo) Passito di Pantelleria


Donnafugata’s "Ben Ryè" 2004 Passito di Pantelleria

Salvatore Murana "Mueggen" Moscato di Pantelleria

Lily also brought some of her fathers aged Marsala wines from the 1960-1970 era. Definitely Vecchio, some Superiore, Riserva and one Vergine.


Like the women in our party, the wines were all ages, in all stages of life. Young, middle-aged and elderly.
They all shared a common familiarness. There was an attractiveness that they all had, but in many cases it was like what one feels for one's mother or daughter, or one's sister. Once in a while the lover would appear. But we were in their milieu, their surroundings, their sea. I was just a carefree observer on a short break.

The Endless Italian Summer

Fragments of a dream. All the Italians lying by a body of water, clutching onto a little piece of coastline, in the summertime. Their thoughts floating out into space, like smoke rings from Mt. Etna.

In southern Italy, with a room by the beach, and a fan. Looking from the window at this yearly ritual of recharge and rest. Only a distant memory now, while the Italians listen to the waves lap the shoreline, talk about what they will have for dinner, think about their fantasy lovers. Another endless Italian summer.

For the next six weeks or so, the Italians have put all manner of tasks on hold. Along the way, the grapes are calling, this time it's an early harvest from prolonged early heat and sun. Grape pickers, some who are scheduled to work a rice or a peach harvest, might be hard to obtain for the delicate work of bringing in the grapes. That isn’t part of the dream. Not in the plans for the Italian’s summer. Winemakers will have already planned to stay home, or at least delegate to their vineyard managers: find some bodies and keep the cell phones on in the fields.


As the car leaves Potenza we have to decide if we head towards Salerno in Campania, or make the longer trek south into Calabria. There are several winemaker friends to visit in Campania and the thinking is to get there before they disappear for a few weeks. In Calabria, they are already gearing up for the grapes, coming on the heels of their other crops. They will vacation in October, when it is still warm.

Funny how a trip to Italy, while one is drawn to the water, always leads back to the interior. So while the Italian is dreaming of their time on the beach, others drill deep into the heart of other matters.

On the phone with a winemaker in Trentino, who is not happy. He hasn’t raised his prices in three years and this time he want to go up 20%. Combine that with a weak dollar and sluggish consumer pull (read: buying cheaper wine), and he is in for a very rude awakening. I wish him luck and say good-bye, probably forever. How do you tell someone, making a Sauvignon Blanc in northern Italy, that the New Zealanders have just handed you your head on a plate? Folks might be buying Classic 7 apartments in NY for $2.5 million, but they aren’t springing for $30 Italian Sauvignon Blanc for housewarming gifts. Next.

Gravina, Falanghina, Greco, Mantonico, Grillo, Inzolia. We will make it up in The South.


A pack of wild dogs cross the Super Strada, stirring the dreamer. The car comes to a halt. They stare at us, we stare back. What? Four, maybe five seconds of that and it’s time to pull the car over and take a break. As that happens, the animals continue on their path. Wild rabbits have been seen in great numbers causing the dogs to move into the area, to feed on the bounty. A few small children have been reported missing, and occasionally, one comes across one of the dogs, shot, dead, hanging from a fence. A talisman for the pack to change direction. A middle aged man was found nearly dead, slumped in a field, with a bullhorn and an empty canteen of water. It was said he had gone looking for his young son and now the wife has nearly two members of her family gone. Barely two miles away other families play on the beach and plan their meals. The dream, intersecting with the unthinkable.

All the while the waxing moon heads towards fullness. And Mt Etna waits patiently, stirring slightly in her slumber, sending signs that have yet to be understood.

Cadillac Fever

There they were, waiting for me as I landed in Dallas from La Guardia, the good ‘ol boys. I had just come back on a flight with a guy from Midland, born and raised in the dusty desolate town that's had its share of desperados.

This ‘ol boy, he luuuvvved Midland. But his lady friend lived in New York. So he had to haul his tail up there to get whatever he thought he needed from his gal in Gotham.

One thing he said, and he said a lot of things, ‘cause he was about two days too many away from Texas, he said, “There’s too much concrete and not enough sunsets.” I couldn’t disagree. Something about living in the West that just gets under your skin. To make matters worse, he pulled out the latest copy of Texas Farm and Ranch magazine, and he asked me if I wanted a look-see. Damn him.

They got me with that little Hill Country spread in Bandera County. Real nice.

Meanwhile, giant mosquitoes are attacking me in my bed and it's just March. I’ll never get out of here. Cadillac fever’ll get me.

At the Dallas airport, the old man was waiting by the car, lighting up another cigarette. He looked like he just came from a funeral.

It was 12:30, time for a late lunch. All that NY pizza and vegetarian food ‘like to mess up my regimen of steak and ribs. That was about to get rectified.

At the chop house, the usual table was waiting. Liquor was ordered, not wine. Time was slowing down, and something was about to fall from the sky, I felt an impending message coming on. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Better just 'buck up and face it, sooner than later.


“Son,” he said, “do you see what I’m holding in my hand?” I replied that it looked like whisky. “Damn right! And you want to know why we’re drinking it?” I figured he liked the stuff. Sometimes on airplanes, the whiskey was better than most wines offered. He clarified our position. “Son, this whiskey keeps the lights on. If these folks pull the plug, we can all go home. Now, if one of these here whiskey fellers brings us a wine to sell, don’t go into a big song and dance about how smart y'all wine folks are and how ignorant them spirits boys are, ya hiyrr me?”

Yes sir, don’t want the lights to go all blooey on us.

“And when you and your boy head out to Ittly next week, don’t be finding any more wine to fill up the warehouses with. We got enough, and tell them there Eyetalians so. Tell ‘em to make less and make it better and charge less for it. That’s what’ll work here in the lower midsection of America, down heeya in the crotch.”

And with that, juicy steaks arrived with baked potatoes and lots of farm fresh butter and chives and sour cream and fresh pepper. It wasn’t cold outside, and the landscape wasn’t littered with dirty grey-black snow. It was 68°F, and bright and clear.

Crystal clear.

Afterwards I set out to find Beatrice Russo. It seems some of my old wines had been depleted. I noticed a bottle of some ancient Barolo in the trash bin, along with a Champagne bottle or two, a Roederer and a Pol Roger. And a bottle of La Chapelle Hermitage 1985.

Oh yeah, and my bottle of Gran Gala that I had sitting there to take to the newspaper, so they could photograph it for an article; it was 2/3rds empty.

I better go find that young lady.



Images from PLAN59.COM

Fantasy Island

This post is meant to serve as an explanation for whenever I use the Fantasy Island label. This simple key is this: Whenever I write a post with the Fantasy Island label, you can safely assume it is written from a fictional perspective. Just in case there are people who get mixed up about some of the posts here. After all, what is a blog, if not a writing laboratory for ideas and projects?

Thank you.