But deliver us from evil

On July 18, 1942, 73 young Jewish children started their journey to safety. They would end up in Nonantola, a small town near Modena. Their new home would be Villa Emma, and thanks to the courage of many, they escaped the horror of the concentration camps.

There are many stories like this told in the Italian countryside, especially in the south. But in the richer, industrial north, closer to the seat of power and in the path of the German army, to shelter 73 young Jewish kids was an act of courage that put so many lives at risk.

Walking through the villa, now part shrine and part working balsameria (a place where balsamic vinegar is made) there are all manner of emotions that jump out, even to the casual tourist. This day we were visiting the Giacobazzi family and their balsamic vinegar operations. They now own Villa Emma.

We had been to an olive oil factory, to a Prosciutto plant and to a dairy where they made Parmigiano. We had been to a winery, and as we were driving towards the Villa Emma I saw the name Giacobazzi and thought of the 1970’s when so much of their Lambrusco invaded the American shelves. That era of the business is over now, but the vinegar business is stronger than ever. In fact, in America it is often hard to find vinegar that doesn’t have the name balsamic on it. A sad note that most vinegar labeled balsamic is a ghostly shadow of the real thing.

We stopped at the Fattorie Giacobazzi near Modena and tasted their products at a nearby restaurant with food. I normally do not like the sweeter style of vinegar, but we were in a center of traditional production and it made all the difference in the world. The wines and foods and vinegars paired beautifully on that day, from appetizer to dessert. But that doesn't seem too important right now.

This post isn’t about wine or food or even vinegar. No, it’s about the Italian spirit that created a space for young lives to continue. The same space that fosters grapes into vinegar, become something greater than the wine it might have been destined to become. Lambrusco and Trebbiano grapes, along with a few other native grapes, Sorbara, Salamino, Ancellotta. Their lives transformed.

The upper floor is quiet, serene, like a chapel, filled with ancient kegs of vinegar, from a family that has been keeping it up for more than 200 years. It was like walking through a living mausoleum of family history. The hands of the grandparents and great grandparents, still in evidence in the rooms. The closest thing to life beyond our sentence of 50-70-90 years. Immortality? No. But something greater than just a few moments in the spotlight. And with something to show, to share, for those who come after.

The Jewish survivors, who are no longer young, come back to Villa Emma. They bring their children and their grandchildren, to show them a place, and a time, that honored their beliefs and their lives. And this place lives on to honor the traditions of the elders who toiled in those rooms at the top of the villa. The same villa that sheltered 73 young, scared, homeless, children who had lost most of their family in a war and a sin against humanity. Now they come back to celebrate the victory of good over evil. And toast the victory with the sweet balsamic of the ages from the villa.




http://www.fondazionevillaemma.org/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0Si1xMNOok

http://www.jvibe.com/israel/great_escape.php

http://www.catholiceducation.org/articles/catholic_stories/cs0070.html

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

Note: this post was written as a result of being on an invited tour of Emilia and Tuscany by the Italian Trade Commission

I ♥ Lambrusco

I must have driven through the region a hundred times. Never stopped. Always on my way to somewhere more important. Alba, Montalcino, Fiumicino, Ciampino. It was often a spot on the highway where I’d zone out. It was flat. It was boring. I was tired. We’d already been to too many places for Italian wine.

And then I spent a few days in the region. No Brunello, no Barolo. I remembered back home, my pal Paul and his love for the stuff. He had people driving all the way from Beaumont, Shreveport, and Abilene to Dallas to get the fizzy wine from him. I didn’t pay any attention to it. Figured they were people who just hadn’t developed a taste for Italian wine and were stuck in a genre. Boy, was I wrong.

I had just finished a very long meeting with Italian apparatchiks, listening to their boring speeches and then listening to the translations. And then having to listen to the Italian speaker correct the translator as to the way she incorrectly translated him. It was long. It was tedious. Staring at the ceiling. Here I was again in this area, not on the highway this time, but the same sensation. Boredom. And then someone announced that lunch was being served and everyone came to life.

I don’t remember ever having had a meal standing up in Italy, except for at an Autogrill or Vinitaly. There was an array of foods from the area, cured meats, cheeses, some over béchameled lasagne, a scant few greens. And over in the corner there was some radioactive looking green fizzy kiwi juice and a bucket of wine. A winemaker came up to me and started pouring me his sparkling Malvasia. Nice. And then his sparkling rosé that he named after his beautiful wife. I liked his wife better. And then he poured me his Lambrusco. And the lights went on.

This was the kind of wine I wanted when I would go into a restaurant in my hometown. I’d probably never find it, though. It wasn’t cool enough for Dallas. Not big and voluptuous with lots of poofy hair and mammalian charm. It was a little subtler than that.

It was tasty. I sucked the first glass down. I feared the afternoon of headache from drinking red wine syndrome. It happens to me. I didn’t need that, what with the nose bleed syndrome that was cramping my style. But I went in for another glass. Wow, this was an epiphany!

Several days later we were at a dairy/bar/salumeria and the same wine popped up. I had a glass. And then another Lambrusco showed up. And I had another glass. After my last two-glass-of-red-wine-lunch-with-no-headache I wanted to test the waters. And the wine was sooo good. I was hooked.

A day or so after that lunch we were in Modena at Antica Moka and another Lambrusco was being poured, strange looking bottle. Looking big. Looking important. Lambrusco di Sorbara “Vecchia Modena” by Cleto Chiarli. I gave it a try. Wow, it was even better than the other two I’d had.

I had this as we were heading out of Emilia towards Lucca and Viareggio. So my little Lambrusco affair was over as soon as it had started. But I will return. This is too good to let another 20 years pass by. I’ll be back.



I ♥ Lambrusco

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

Note: this post was written as a result of being on an invited tour of Emilia and Tuscany by the Italian Trade Commission

Speed-dating in the Maremma

Love means never having to say you're Syrah

On my last trip to Italy, a colleague asked me to sit in for him at a B2B in Grosseto. Mind you, my dance card is full when it comes to Italian wines, but hey, I was there and so I said, "Sure, why not."

After a very late night on a path from Parma to Modena to Lucca to Viareggio (in one day), we headed out very early down the sunny West Coast. This area is growing on me, seeing as I get there more often, lately, than my home state of California. So I pretend I am going from San Luis Obispo to Santa Barbara, but with really good Italian restaurants along the way. It makes traveling easier, especially with hard beds, flat pillows, haunted rooms and any number of improvised showers one finds in Italian hotel bathrooms.

So we arrive to the hotel for the B2B, and a few sleepy eyed producers of wine are setting up their tables and opening wines. My two young Italian handlers, Michela and Giovanna, amble up to me with a list. "Here are your appointments today, Mr. Cevola." Fifteen appointments with producers of Morellino, Montecucco and any number of fantasy Tuscan wines, red and white. I gaze at the list and know this will be a long day, a marathon, something akin to speed dating with potential wine partners.

It wasn't my first rodeo with Morellino

The first one is a bright young lad; he represents one of the first producers of Morellino in the area. Little does he know, when they shoot out dates, that I have older bottles of Morellino in my closet back home, standing like Etruscan sentries, frozen in time and probably art this time, as lifeless as the statues in the nearby archeological museum.

Fifteen minutes later I head to the next table, a sunny and tanned young man, about 35, who makes 6,000 cases of wine. He has a young wife one son and a daughter on the way. He is the future, having been inspired by his nonno to live the life of a farmer. I kid him that his Ferragosto tan still looks fresh. He laughs. "Yes I wish. The harvest, we just finished it. This is the life." I know. I know.

The next, a couple, has an unusual setup. They look out of place, but not uncomfortable, in this setting. I taste their wines. They are brilliant. No oak, no steel, no manipulation. They have been reading from the same chapter and verse as many of the young, up and coming winemakers from around the world. In my time, they would have been called hippies, but they are brighter, and have that yoga-glow from peering into their future and setting their course. They make very little wine, but this is the kind of wine I want to drink. I give them the name of a friend in NY who really needs to talk to them, and they hand me their brochure with their agriturismo. How I would love to spend a few days there.

But their 15 minutes are up and I must move to the next table. A young man, looking a little like John Candy is pouring me his wine, as bulk offering. He looks nervous, sweat is pouring off his forehead.

His wine: the nose stinks of sulfur. I mention to him the bottle might be off. He opens another. It isn’t as bad, but I notice a thread in his style. Too much sulfur. My already suffering nose is twitching inside; I am fearing another nose bleed. I make quick work of this visit. No further dates will be necessary.

Next table, an older man, he says something to the interpreter, and she turns beet red. He recognized her, and she was startled. I look at his hands, the hands of a farmer, cracked nails, with dirt and stones wedged between the fissures. I don’t know why but I ask him if he has always been doing this. He looked the part, after all, but I was interviewing my "dates" so the questions started coming out a little more spontaneously. Seems he was a computer person in his last life, in Torino (of course) and was responsible in the very beginning of the computer age for setting up the computerized power grid for the city. His wines were rustic in a Tondonia way. But I just couldn’t relate to them. Or the prices.

Morellino, in its basic incarnation, is a lovely wine. Think simple Beaujolais with a sunnier disposition and a little less spice. All along this trip the wines that have resonated with me have been on the lighter side. The Lambrusco from Sorbara I had in Modena. The Etna Rosso we opened in Grosseto later that night. And Morellino that wins my heart, or at least another dance, has lightness in the taste that isn’t heavy, isn’t brooding. There are people who recognize the nature of Morellino and aren’t trying to Brunello-super-size it.

Mind you, there is still too much Merlot and Cabernet and Syrah and Petite Verdot in the Maremma for my taste. Next table.

Another young producer is in love with the Super Tuscan model. I ask him, again a spontaneous questioning, how Merlot and Cabernet found their way to the coast? "Oh, it has been here all my life."

It has been here all my life. That is how these things get their start. Someone, centuries ago, from another tribe and in another language, on this spot said the very same thing about the Ansonica.

The Green Mile

I head to another table, a young woman she is ruddy-faced, looking more Irish than Tuscan. She makes Montecucco, both the Sangiovese and the blends (with those intl grapes). But her Sangiovese Montecucco, again, is a more authentic expression, you can smell the land, the touch isn’t heavy, there are not oversaturated flavors from Cabernet or wood.

And so it goes, for 10 hours, with a short break for lunch.

At the last table, I am exhausted. My nose is shot, my back is sore, my feet are swollen from sitting and Sangiovese and salt from too many cured meat tastings. I want to go home, drink water, put my feet up and listen to some Bob Wills. Fat chance, Leroy, for there is a wine bar and a box of samples from one of my "steadies" waiting for me at the haunted hotel we will check into. It's going to be a long night, with more crazy stuff for another post, or two.

Piazza Dante in Grosseto: the inspiration for the Dr. Zaius character

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

Note: this post was written as a result of being on an invited tour of Emilia and Tuscany by the Italian Trade Commission

Profuse & Pulchritudinous Parmigiano Porn

Photos from the "Say cicciolata" collection"

“Cheese is my heroin,” is a phrase I often use, especially when I am faced with a mountain of Parmigiano. I have gotten over my affliction in the last year, now it is less an addiction than an indulgence. Recently, in Medesano at Azienda Agricola Bertinelli, Mohammed came to the mountain. Feast your eyes on the prize.

Godiamo, la tazza, la tazza e il cantico,
la vorgna abbella e il riso;
la vorgna questo, in questo paradiso ne scopra il nuovo dì.

The Drinking song from La Traviata Lyrics by Giussepe Verdi,who was born near where these images were taken

A little cheese, a little salumi, a little Lambrusco, you get the idea

Once again with the lovely protective clothing

Nicola Bertinelli, the animated proprietor.

What's life without a little cicciolata once in a while, eh?

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

Note: this post was written as a result of being on an invited tour of Emilia and Tuscany by the Italian Trade Commission

Plenitudinous Prosciutto Porn in Parma

...from the Hog Heaven Hotwire

The good Doctor in Austinopoli wants pictures? My amigo in Napa loves pork? Well have at it boys. An afternoon in a prosciutti palace near Parma, the Galloni Fratelli producer in Langhirano was the setting for these images. I’ll keep the words to a minimum so you all can feast your eyes.

There was about $40,000,000 worth of prosciutti in the building.

I just received an email from Roberto Bava who said of one of their lines of prosciutti, “They use Stradivario Barrique for seasoning it.” The Stradivario barrique Roberto talks about is the barrels he ages his Barbera Superiore in. I cannot imagine how the used barrique finds its way into the prosciutti, but there you have it. Italians are crazy about barrique.

Seriously, this is some of the finest ham I have ever had, and I am no fan of ham. But “when it Langhirano”…

One of the current proprietors, Mirella Galloni, faced an uphill battle coming into a male dominated culture and industry. Mirella is no shrinking violet, and she has an amazing take on culture and cuisine. It was great having a simple meal of prosciutto and bread, lubricated with the always excellent Alta Langa Brut from Giulio Cocchi, my friend Robert Bava’s winery.

Let the images be all the feast you need, for as we say, “one picture is worth a thousand prosciutti.”

With my two "handlers", Michaela and Giovanna, in our "special suits".

This one reminded me of a French Impressionistic painting

Close up and personal

An implement from a horse femur is used to

evaluate the aromatic development of the prosciutti

A blog post wouldn't be as fun without one of the ubiquitous photo ops with then Agri-Minister Luca Zaia hamming it up for the camera. Zaia is the Zelig of Italo-politics and is now Governator of the Veneto Region.

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

Note: this post was written as a result of being on an invited tour of Emilia and Tuscany by the Italian Trade Commission

The real wine crisis in Tuscany

Is not about Sangiovese on a hilltop town called Montalcino. To face the struggle for Italian wine in Tuscany, one needs to go west and work oneself down the sliver of sea and soil that holds so much hope for those producers who have staked their lives on the promise of a land called Maremma.

Here is where aspiration seethes with allusion, spiked with the absinthe of international grapes, laced with high alcohol and over-the-top fruit, threaded with all too powerful and intense oak and finished with a sticker-shocking price tag.

I was sitting in a cool, dark room near Parma decorated with $3 million worth of some of the finest prosciutto I’d ever had, and a marketing person is talking to me about her favorite wines. The subject comes to Sassicaia. “Sassicaia has only gotten to be recognized as one of the best wines in Italy in the last ten years. It is due to the power of the personality of the owner and their way to promote their wines in the world.” Perhaps that is the perception in Italy. I had never thought of it quite like that. I remember back to the wines of Sassicaia a generation ago and thought that was their golden moment. Now the wines are beyond the grasp of those who first fell for them, and the wines have moved into another reality. They have become celebrities, walking the red carpet, stopping for the paparazzi. But, like a beautiful starlet, does anyone really take them home to meet mamma anymore? E, Piero?

Not meant to indict Sassicaia, are they to blame for reaching for those dollars of the collectors who have been hammered by endless Wine Spectator, Gambero Rosso and Decanter stories about their being the greatest wine from Italy? It’s a problem many in Italy would love to have. No, the issue, as I see it, is the shifting tides of wine tastes in the world, and in Italy, and the interplay of those tastes with the emergence of wine as a status symbol and economic indicator. Peruse Asian wine blogs such as La Grand Rue and it is pretty evident there are those in that world who revere wines like Sassicaia with the same reverence as Latour or Margaux. Those wines convey a different meaning to them than they do to me.

Which brings me back to the cool, dark room filled with prosciutto. Conversation with the owner of the factory ensued, about how one does business with the Asian market. I commented that I could see how a Japanese person might see prosciutto as exotic and thence, desirable. The owner corrected me. “No, it is not like that. It has to do with how we share our idea of cuisine.” (I could see I was in line for a vaccination on how an Italian thinks about food and explains it to an ignorant American).

“It has to do with our process; you see prosciutto is simply the best when it is served by itself, perhaps with a crust of bread. Simple. Not complicated. Perfect. ” Seeing as that was what we were doing, and it was perfect, I had no argument.

No, my idea was that this fabled landscape might appear to be alluring (which it is, through my lens) and there is the point of contact. Prosciutto, on the level that we were experiencing, can take a person wherever it wants to. And if that transports one to something remarkable, so be it.

Likewise, with wine. The weaving of the tale of the Maremma, with the history, the almost forgotten Italian region, the seemingly impossible events that lead to it being an emerging wine region, and the insertion of a style that appeals to a non-Italian taste (and pocketbook) created a perfect storm for Tuscany.


And that is where the vortex of this crisis revolves. Not so much around where or even what, in regards to place or grapes. Or even technique. No the problem is centered in the kernel of the idea of how we promote Italian wine, to the faraway countries and in Italy as well. We have taken it from an everyday beverage and replaced that with coke or kiwi soda. And we have elevated wine to the status of a thoroughbred horse, similar to the ones that graze on the gentle hills of the Maremma. And that creates an artificial reality, one in which we all mimic landed gentry. And, as dear Piero knows all too well, there isn’t room for all of us to live in that manner. Nor do we all aspire to such an elevated status in life.

There remain, for those of us who search on the wine trail in Italy, simpler pleasures, unfettered with desire for more than that which we really need. So we dart into one of the older caverns and hopefully wait for the storm, or another generation, to pass. And hope that Italy will re-embrace what draws so many to her. Simple. Not complicated. Perfect.

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

Art by Dormice: Heinrich Nicolaus and Sawan Yawnghwe, who live and work in Tuscany