The “New” New Yorkers and the “New” Californians ~ Leaving Jurassic Park for the Aquarian Era

Living in flyover country does have its benefits. You can get to either coast in a matter of hours. A recent weekend in San Francisco, I was able to spend time with the wine community there and get a gauge on their current sensibilities. This past week in New York also afforded me a quick douse into full-immersion of where they’re at right now.

A couple of things. Dining here and there. The Wine Spectator Experience. And the latest rising star in the wine bar scene. Let's jump in.

High Cotton Uber-Dining in Gotham City

Posting from the road. In NY, the rain followed me from flyover country. Fortunately that wasn’t the only wet thing in my path.

Marea with the Maestro

That's right Marea - not Marfa - not yet

There ain’t too many people I would get out of a warm, dry taxi and go hunt down a shovel to clear a path for, in a snowfall, but Filippo De Belardino is one of them. And to do it, to make a way to one of the best meals I will have this year, let’s say it was worth it. Oh yeah! Man if I was a gambling man, after SD26 and Marea, I should just go home. First the disclaimer and then the details.

I know some folks just don’t like reading these kinds of posts. It could come off like a nah-nah-nah-nah-nah kind of brag-fest. But I promise to interject love and life and good times about friends and the most important thing in the wine business – the relationships. If I remember. Or I might just brag.

It’s hard not to love a guy like Filippo. Even when I get mad at him (rarely) I still love the cat. He is warm and generous and he gives me room to be myself. I think of him as a brother-in-arms. Thankfully, not a brother-in-law.

My Dinner with Carmen: The Sequel

People love stories. And I’m no exception. I adore a good story, especially from a master storyteller, like my pal Carmen Castorina. I love his energy, his sense of wonder in things, his early adopter mentality. In fact Carmen is one of the few people I can talk to about things as diverse as politics, wine, photography, technology and talk and talk for hours. We don’t argue, we talk. And talk. And I love to listen. Who can resist when the stories being told are so damn entertaining?

So when we met again for the second year in New York for Vino2011 I knew we were going to have dinner together. Anyone who read the entry from last year, My Dinner with Carmen, might already know a little about the guy. But this year, we aimed to blow it out. And blow 2010 away. And we did.

The Great Whiteoutpocalypse of 2011

Despite the foul weather (after all, it is January and winter!) this week in NY has been another great week of networking and celebrating all things Italian. The Italian Trade Commission took it “over the top” this week, with a stellar lineup of seminars and superstars to present. Their web site is "fully socialized” and the young (and young at heart) who ran that part of the event really get social media and all the new stuff that very few people get. But like breathing or blood pumping, it comes pretty naturally for them and for all the early adopters of all ages. Great wines more than make up for foul weather, non e’ vero?

Manducatis with the Masters

It all started with Carmen. Our night with Anthony at Manducatis was so much fun, that I wanted to share the energy of the place with my friends. So I started inviting folks. First, Paul, then Denise and Juan Pablo and then Ronn and Hajni and finally, Damon. Amongst us we had a master sommelier (Damon), a Master Sommelier and Master of Wine (Ronn), a couple of young wine buyers (Denise and Juan Pablo) who are also a couple, Hajni, whose family makes wine in Hungary, and Paul and me. We could probably handle a wine list like Manducatis.

Walking out of the Waldorf-Astoria, I noticed a stretch limo, long enough for seven. With a little unsuccessful bargaining (he wanted $70- I offered $50 – no deal) we walked a couple of blocks to Grand Central Station to catch the #7 subway to Queens. Two stops later we piled out of the subway and ambled towards the fabled restaurant.

Once settled I asked for Anthony and two wine lists. Handing the list to Damon and Ronn, I just wanted to see the looks on their faces when they went through it. Ronn is the publisher of Restaurant Wine and Damon criss-crosses the country, working with sommeliers. These guys know their way around a wine list. On Ronn’s website his bio reads, “Master of Wine (1991) and Master Sommelier (1986) — and was the first person in the world to hold both titles. He remains the only American ever to pass the entire Master of Wine exam on the first attempt.”

Damon came to earn his credentials a little later in life. Simply said, we were in the presence of wine world royalty. I know they are just human, and they put their pants on the same way. Around me, they never act with any degree of entitlement. Here’s the crux of it to me: We have these gents like Ronn and Damon, who are eminently qualified (and certified) wine experts – nicer guys you wouldn’t want to meet. And they share their information in an inclusive way, none of that secret handshake hooey. Then we have these new media wunderkinds, maybe they’ve been blogging about wine, part-time for a couple of years – what are their qualifications, their expertise? They get a few hits, some recognition, the bright lights and they begin to believe all the stuff that’s written about them. Maybe Andy Blue was on to something. Maybe I'm just not buying into the swagger of the new media muezzins. Maybe, just bring back nice.

OK, op-ed over. On to the wines.

Ronn was favoring a Tuscan and a Piedmont red. The Tuscan was the 1999 Ricasoli Casalferro and the Piedmont red was the Oddero 97 Barbaresco. Damon was looking at the 1998 Nino Negri Sfursat Cinque Stelle and a 97 Brunello, the Friggiali. Oddly, there were no white wines listed.

Anthony seemed busy that night, so we didn’t want to bother him and just ordered from the list. That was probably a mistake, as this wine list is his baby and he probably would have wanted to steer us a little in one direction or another. It is my sense that he knows where all these wines are at in their development, and probably because of his closeness to the table and opening wine bottles all the time. His expertise most likely ranks a tad beyond any of is at the table that night.

Not to say there weren’t those of us who had thoughts and opinions about wine.

Paul, I found out, really thought he didn’t like Nebbiolo, but the Cinque Stelle won him over. I believe he even came to like the Oddero, which was showing very well. It was a 97, usually not my favorite vintage from Italy, but the wine was handled well in the cellar. It also didn't seem to suffer excess ripeness that marred many of the 97’s I have tasted. The Casalferro was my least favorite, and seemed to be a slight disappointment at the table, as it wasn’t finished. Seven people and four bottles of wine shouldn’t have been a big deal. Sangiovese and Merlot – probably not the way of the future for Italy.

The Friggiali was a wine I had no experience with. Pretty label. Maybe too ripe for me. And oaky. Frankly, it was starting to resemble an over-ripe red from Napa and we all know that is not a trajectory for Napa or Montalcino in these times. Leaner, less oakier, would have been more to my preference. But it was also under $70 on a wine list for a wine that is almost thirteen years old. So really no reason to complain. Ok to rent, but not to buy, my dad would say.


The real deal of the night was getting Damon and Ronn together and watching their vine-minds sparring with each other. And of course, the whole party was just about as agreeable and happy to be together as I have seen in a fortnight. I could go on, but we all know I over-write these posts. The notes I got from folks in the party afterward was enough of a reinforcement that this night, which I longed to put together friends to drink wonderful old wines and kick back in Queens, well that was the reward enough for a week spent working and breathing on the wine trail in Old New York.

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

Lil 'ol Ittly

After a couple of days at seminars during the recent Vino2010, where along with others I was hosted by the Italian Trade Commission, I noticed one of my friends getting a little stir crazy. Sausage Paul wasn’t used to sitting around, talking about wine. He was Joneseing for a field trip, so when he suggested we cab it to Little Italy so he could visit some of his purveyors, I jumped at the chance.

Mind you, I’m a lover of luxury and ease, just as much as the next person, but New York isn’t always about the easy. It is a challenge to live in the city, as I learned that lesson so well 35 years ago when I decided to immigrate to New York from sunny California. It was a short lived move as I missed sunsets and horizons, wide open skies and the feeling of individuality. And while that might sound a little Rod McKuen-ish, somehow I always felt more unique in California than I did in New York. And Texas, forget about it. We’re all uber-independent here in the Lone Star State. This all plays into my Italian pathology, which imagines they all love us, "for who we are", as much as our mother does. Uh huh.

Somewhere between Little Italy and Chinatown, Sausage Paul noticed a sign for foot massages, and before I knew it we were high-tailing it out of the cab and looking over the massage menu. It was a mean cold day in February in New York, and I was hungry. The last thing I was thinking about was getting a 30 minute foot massage. Paul remarked, “What can they do to your feet in 45 minutes? What could they do that would take that long?” I told him to ask Joey the Weasel, aka Joe Strange Eye. “Joe’s the one with the foot fetish, he could enlighten us.”

Outside of Di Palo’s I could see Sausage Paul coming to life. He was in his element. And it was a great thing. After taking him to Italy a few years ago and seeing him respond to all things Italian around him (even my Italian style of driving) this time the shoe was on the other foot. People were coming out of their stores and shouting at him, "Hey Paulie, whatcha doing in New Yawk? Come on in, have a cannoli or a sfogliatelle.” It was like that all over the place, Sausage Paul was part of the fabric of Little Italy. This time I was the visitor, and glad to be part of his entourage.

Inside Di Palo’s, Lou and Paul talked about this little Italian deli on Mulberry that uses only American made products. We sprinted over to Torrisi Italian Specialties just in time for lunch. Inside, there were all kinds of wonderful offerings of little vegetable plates, from potatoes with peppers to broccoli rabe to lupini beans. I was set. Paul ordered a Hero. When it arrived, I did a double take. It looked like something I knew as a grinder, growing up in Riverside Country, but the same effect. A crusty bread outer and thinly sliced ham and capicola and cheese, littered with spices and a chiffonade of lettuce. Paul sliced me off a corner of it and man, was it food-lust at first-sight for me. I was going to Paradise via the Van Wyck of pork.

Torrisi partner, Mario Carbone

After stopping by the counter to give the owner an attaboy, we headed back towards a place Paul wanted to visit, his music and t-shirt supplier. Ernest Rossi’s family has been in business for over 100 years, all on the same block. A sweet guy, who has everything under the sun in the way of swag, Italian Style. I was eye-balling the Dominic the Italian Christmas Donkey t-shirts, really wanting one. But we were moving fast. Paulie's got a lot of friends in Little Italy and he was only there for an afternoon.

We did make one diversion into Ferrara’s for an espresso and trio of mini pastries. I inhaled the cannolo, while Paul savored the moment.

This is a guy who can hold his own when discussing the merits of zampone or cotechino. I just watch in admiration as he spars with the giants of Little Italy as they discuss this sausage maker or that baker as if they were talking about the Brooklyn Dodgers or the New York Giants. I was in awe.

And wine, on this field trip to lil ‘ol Ittly? With the exception of the brief moment we stepped into Di Palo’s enoteca wine shop and looked over the Valtellina and Basilicata wines, this was all about food. To be perfectly candid, it was a welcome break from wine 24-7. And even though my food lust is in remission, it is a rare event to walk the historic streets, once the epicenter of Italian American life with one of the new ambassadors of that movement, one who keeps my home town well supplied with all the necessities for a well equipped pantry.

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

Pizza in the Promised Land

I’ve been thinking (and eating) on this ‘ol blog lately. Last week in NY for the Vino2010 event, myself, along with others in the trade were hosted by the Italian Trade Commission. There has been some pondering on the current state of affairs regarding Italian wine along with the merchant’s responsibility to move business forward and the observers tendency to chronicle the pageant which unfolds, daily. With all of this thinking and observing one can work up quite an appetite, so last week, upon the invitation of Tom Hyland and Charles Scicolone, I headed to the West Village, to Bleeker Street, and Kesté Pizzeria for a night with the boys.

Charles’ friend Ernie DeSalvo, and winemaker Alberto Longo, also joined us, both contributing some great wines for the night.

Where to begin? After a long weekend in La Jolla, I was veering off the path that my self-enforced diet had taken me. But if there are temptations in California and New York, and there are, wait until I get to France and Italy next month. So I’d better get a grip on things now. But this night was devoted to pizza, and not just any pizza, but a veritable Mecca for pizza Napolitana.

I’ve had some great experiences in Italy and America with pizza, but Kesté ranks way up there. Wine with pizza is a toughie, I know there are folks who think pizza is for beer, but none the less some great wines popped up on the table.

Charles and Ernie brought a trio of wines from the vaults, a 1982 Grato Grati from Villa di Vetrice, a 1964 Spanna Castello di Montalbano and a 1958 Spanna from Vallana.

Starting with a duo of Battilocchio, long pizza-like rectangular affairs, reminding me of the Pannuozzo I’d had earlier in the winter (I wonder if anyone can explain the difference between Battilocchio and Pannuozzo). We eventually had several pizzas, among them a Margherita, a Vegetariano, a Prosciutto e Arugula and the signature Kesté, also with prosciutto, arugula, fresh mozzarella and tomatoes.

Alberto, who lives north of Bari and has a place in the West Village (“an investment for my son”) brought one of his wines as well, a full bodied red that was fat and tan. We were living large.

Thanks to Ernie for his sunny and easygoing disposition. Tom Hyland (who also marvelously posted on his blog about the evening here) made sure the night was documented by his effervescent photography (this image of our female nearby-table mates from Australia was captured by his lustful eye). Alberto was pleasant company and his generosity that night was of the quintessential Southern gentleman type. And of course Charles, the lion in winter, Charles the brave heart, the soft spoken but vigilant warrior in the crusade to bring Italian wine to America's table. Has anyone ever properly accorded Charles the respect his is so rightfully due in being one of the beacons of light for Italian wine in America? Perhaps, but as with most of those who labor under the gaze of Bacchus, I rather imagine other ones with a louder shout and better p.r. placement in the media circus probably get undeserved credit for the contributions people like Charles have made. Let me just say, I don’t think – I know this is the truth- there is so much posturing in the Italian wine business, and on wine blogs about those who think they are “forze maggiori.” But behind the swagger and the shouting, there are the real forces, behind the curtains, making the history. Ok, there, I’ve said it.

I cannot imagine a better moment than the evening I had with this league of gentlemen. But this is just the first in a week of New York nights. So let us simply mark this as one of many to come, all of which will unfold on this indulgence of mine along the wine trail, sometimes in Italy, and once upon a time in America.

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

My Dinner with Carmen

“You aren’t going to put any of this on your blog, are you?” Those were the words I heard from my friend Carmen Castorina. “No Carmen, not the juicy stuff,” I said, as I made the zip-the-lip sign. Omerta.

We were sitting in the corner table of Manducatis, sipping espresso after a memorable meal, made special, thanks to Anthony Cerbone, whose family owns the venerable restaurant. Years ago Lou Iacucci recommended the place to me. I made a note of it, put it in my file and proceeded to forget the advice. Years later another friend, Dr. P, would bring the subject up again. I reckon I was ready this time. But I wasn’t going without my buddy Carmen.

How can I say this? I will speak as plainly as possible. Life is made for the times when you can take a subway, two short stops from Grand Central into Queens, and walk into a shrine for Italian wine without all the hoo-rah that sometimes goes with it. We were spending an afternoon in Manhattan at the Vino2010 event, where the subject of Italian wine was being scrutinized by every manner of Italian wine expert. So where were all these folks now? Manducatis is the destination after all the talk has been laid out on the seminar tables, no?

They must have gone to Le Cirque or Del Posto.

In fact, those were the venues for the night. Somewhere along the line, my vouchers were redirected and I, having adopted a newer mellower, kinder persona, just walked away from the tables with the computers and the forms and resigned to go to dinner on my own. Oh, what a lucky man I am. And with Carmen as my Sicilian co-conspirator, to Manducatis we did go.


Carmen just reached his 30th year in the wine business, all with the Gallo family. He directs communications for the company, but Carmen is an avatar, an early adaptor, an idea guy. I like talking to him, and especially over a hard to get bottle (and most likely the last of its kind) of Italian wine. And as good as the wine list is (and it is really good) and the food (and it is plenty fine), it's the stories, the stories; that’s the banquet when one has dinner with Carmen.

Where to start? This man has a life story that’s got book deal plastered all over it, if such things were still being considered. But they aren’t too much. The publishing biz is in the crapper, but people still want the stories. And that’s the strength of the blog and the blogger.

440 words in already and all just as a set up? I know – get to the point, all y’all are saying.

If you think I’m going to reveal Carmen’s secret, you better think again. Suffice it to say – Carmen has seen kings made and kings die in the wine biz. He’s had 11th hour dinners with giants of the wine world, like his old boss Earnest Gallo – but I can’t tell you about them, yet. He is the wizard of the wine biz – he makes ‘em – he bakes ‘em – I am just really glad we are on the same side. Carmen knows what will sell in these times (hint: they dont sell for $50+).

I gotta get him to write all the stories down. His story is the history of the wine business in America in the last 30 years. Big plans, broken hearts, monumental successes, big picture stuff, the view from 30,000 feet. All done with a strategically inserted good deed, and a smile straight out of Lewis Carroll.

Man I wish I could tell you. But I promised my friend – Omerta – No way. At least not until we finish this last bottle of wine Anthony just brought.

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