The Native and Indigenous Italian Grapes Series Round-up

Over the summer I was motivated to produce a mini series on Native and Indigenous Italian Grapes. This is a round-up of those posts, in case one or two slipped past your feed.

The seven posts are:

• Ferragosto Forever
• Surf, swell and tides on Verdicchio Island – Matelica, the monster wave
• A short personal history of Arneis
• In praise of Trebbiano Abruzzese - a short personal history
• The Old Fool's Guide to Erbaluce
• The Unbearable Lightness of Being… Fiano di Avellino
• Tocai Friulano - For every funeral there is a second line (and a silver lining)

These are personal recollections, not necessarily mementos, although there is a little bit of history. Moreover, my intent was to enliven the discussion about native and indigenous Italian grapes beyond a PowerPoint presentation and a tasting lineup. While those are also a necessary evil in today’s time-crunched world, I thought it important to tell a back story for some of these grapes, to give them light and life, and to highlight the impact they’ve had on me and those of us who walk on the wine trail in Italy. And, by the way, this post marks the completion of the 13th year of this blog.

Enjoy, happy perusing and Happy New Year!

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

wine blog +  Italian wine blog + Italy W

Tocai Friulano - For every funeral there is a second line (and a silver lining)

From the Native & Indigenous Italian Grapes Series

It was April of 2007, in Verona. Colleague and dear friend, Andrea Fassone, called out. “Come outside, there is a procession at Vinitaly. They are giving a funeral for Tocai!”

Sure enough, there was a line of horns, bellowing out a dirge for a wine which was losing its name, a victim of EU regulations. Tocai from Friuli was no longer to be called Tocai, in deference to Hungarian Tokaji. From that day forward in Italy it would now be known as Friulano. Period. The end.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being… Fiano di Avellino

From the Native & Indigenous Italian Grapes Series

Vesuvius in Eruption by Joseph Mallord William Turner

In flyover country USA in the 1980’s, finding decent white wine from Italy was a gamble. As I’ve written countless times on this blog, the Italians were digging out from a devasting world war, and technology was creeping forward. There were more important things than making white wine palatable for Americans. I remember a Florentine trattoria owner once told me, “Americans, what do they know?” Along with that there was this affection for the older style of white wine – more robust, with all manner of flavors and sensations – from spritzy to roughly textured, from oxidized to “marsalato.” The older folks (typically, men) loved them and saw no reason to change to cleaner and leaner. Those wines would fit in well today in wine bars below 14th Street and in places like Williamsburg.

But a trip to Fort Worth, Texas changed all that for me.

The Old Fool's Guide to Erbaluce

Inside my office there is a closet, a ramshackle affair, with whatever I haven’t yet figured out how to deal with. On the middle shelf there is this bulging box of wine labels, which has become my personal Jumanji. Within these slips of paper, there are any number of memorable moments, immortalized by removing them from their earthly chamber. These labels are the closest thing to timelessness in a world in which labels are digitized, scanned and then cycled into the bin of data in “the cloud.” But these labels talk to me, they stalk me in the present, and call to me from the past. One, notably arose to the occasion last week, when I was rummaging for Trebbiano labels in the box. It was a simple label, printed on thin paper and was Spartan in appearance. There was nothing sexy about it. But once my eyes saw it, a floodgate of memories surged forth like the ninth wave. So, I put on my flippers and rode it to a faraway shore.

In praise of Trebbiano Abruzzese - a short personal history

Dino Illuminati, me and Daniele Spinelli,- 30 years ago

Without a doubt, the one indigenous Italian white that I have the most experience with over the years is Trebbiano Abruzzese. Because of that, I have a fondness for this wine. When I mention it in conversation I often get raised eyebrows before the verbal comments. I know what’s coming, and I brace myself. I’ve been repeatedly flogged with that whip over the years. It doesn’t hurt anymore.

A short personal history of Arneis

Arneis is an indigenous grape variety found in Piedmont that is enjoying a wave of popularity in this moment. Many people are discovering the charms of the little rascal. But it wasn’t always so. I know, because I was there, one of the early donkeys carrying the (Italian) water up the hill, in hopes of advancing the popularity of wines like Arneis.

Surf, swell and tides on Verdicchio Island – Matelica, the monster wave

I first encountered La Monacesca in the late 1980’s – My friends Eugenio Spinozzi and Sam Levitus (partners in Tricana) imported it into the USA. The wine was in a long, renano (Riesling shaped) bottle and was capable of good aging, developing secondary attributes and becoming a different wine, evolving into something deeper, more than just a run of the mill white wine from Italy.

Matelica - how does it differ from Castelli di Jesi? Matelica and Castelli di Jesi are like two siblings. They resemble one another but they have their own unique personalities. Generally speaking, the Matelica aromas are more towards wildflowers than the peppy citric two-step of Jesi. Matelica has a longer, more stretched-out body of the wine. The topography in Matelica is higher up, more spread out, arranged differently in regards to the nearby coast. And the soils are a world apart.

Ferragosto Forever

Onward through the fog...

What must it be like, for everyday to be the 15th of August? To be lulled into semi-consciousness by the steady patter of the waves upon the shore? To awaken only slightly as the large fiery orb above moves around the umbrella, interrupting your cool breeze with a shout of sunlight? To walk the long, hot sandy mile up to the chalet for a platter of freshly grilled gamberi, or a pasta with fresh clams and a nice bright, crisp, glass of Vermentino or Verdicchio? To nap, under the umbrella, with only the care of wondering what to eat, when the sun finally sets? This is the life of Ferragosto forever.