The Rise of The Italian Wine Specialist in America

An O-N-D Pep Talk

For the past four months I've felt like the mother of all road warriors, in service of Italian wine. I really thought I was finished. I really did. But the wine gods back home in Italy have their ideas. And I had my marching orders. So it was, one more time, around and around America, with sword and shield.

In the wine trade, October, November and December (O-N-D- for short) has been considered the busy time of the year. I've put in 37 O-N-D’s. I’m done with that, my O-N-D having been supplanted by a J-J-A-S (June, July, August and September) with a short October coda thrown in for good measure. Along the way, I experienced something that is very encouraging for the Italian wine trade – and that is the rise of the Italian wine specialist in America.

Blood, Sweat and Tiers - Speading a Wine Culture in America

From the “my world and welcome to it” dept…

GOVERNMENT WARNING: According to the Surgeon General, women
and men who enjoy Italian wine, run the risk of becoming happy.

“That was one hell of a week,” I thought to myself as I landed in rain-soaked Dallas late Friday night. Earlier in the week I’d driven from Dallas to Austin in the fog, and then again the next day from Austin to San Antonio (again, in the fog). After two days of work in the streets with salespeople, I drove home that same day. 700 miles in two days. And then on a plane to New Orleans, for two more days of the same. It was in the French Quarter that I had one of those wonderful epiphanies about the wine business. I mentioned it to my colleague, that at this very time all over the US, people like us were doing the same thing – showing wine to restaurateurs and wine shop owners – and people like us had been doing this for years and years. To me, it was a most wonderful moment, a realization that we are many who are devoted to elevating the culture of food and wine in our world. We, reviled members of a three-tier system. It was revelatory and wonderful.

The O-N-D Winelovers Diet

Hint: Eat lots of fruit

The wine and food industry can take its toll. Days of tastings followed by lunches, dinners and more tastings. No one’s complaining but after 30 years the wines (and the pounds) add up. The high selling season known as O-N-D (October-November-December) represents the lion’s share of wine and spirits sold during any year. Those of you who have followed this blog have been subjected to posts about O-N-D and the various intricacies. Hey, I don’t have scads of beautiful babies to show off. O-N-D is my baby.

And as any mother will tell you, losing weight after giving birth to one of those beauties is no small task.

On September 29, I’d had it. The scale was tipping in a direction I swore I’d never take. I tightened my resolve and took the plunge.

The Changing Face of Italian-American Food and Wine

After the seemingly endless exercise of packing on a Sunday night and heading out to the airport on a Monday morning, I found myself at home wondering what to eat. I’d been in restaurant after restaurant, been fed this Carbonara and that Carbonara. I’d narrowly escaped truffle oil but still had to deal with crappy balsamic vinegar and overly cooked malloreddus drowning in cream. My veins were crying out for simple; for sustenance, not recreation. I gathered up some fresh vegetables, a nice protein and a bottle of Chianti I knew wouldn’t disappoint.

2007 – The Second Tuscan Coming

How many times has it happened to you? You’re in some place where you are just backed up against a wall and have nowhere to go but straight on through it? In the wine business, we’re in the “O” of O-N-D and already it seems like we’ve been at this for a while. We’re backed up against a wall and we still have three months to go.

Prosecco vs. the world

Sergio Mionetto on top of Cartizze

Wine writers must be running out of meaningful subjects, the latest diversion from significant stories being this little piece about Prosecco finally triumphing over Champagne. Perhaps this is just an unconscious jab at France and Sarkozy over dragging the Italians into the current existentialist predicament of the Euro zone. Or maybe it’s that folks have run out of things to talk about between Christmas and the New Years. It would be better for most of the writers to take another stab at a turkey sandwich, watch the “Law and Order” marathon and let the ship pass. This is not important news. Somewhere in the world other sparkling wines are outselling Prosecco and Champagne combined. Should we write that once again for the 25th year, Andre has outsold Champagne too? That’s the image I get in my head when I see these silly stories.

I don’t have a bone to pick with Prosecco. They are riding high. Price increases are forthcoming, by the way, so the Ferris wheel, she goes up, the Ferris wheel, she also goes down. Rarely does the Ferris wheel stop for one at the top. So there will be challenges in 2012, with an election year in the USA, to move the category forward in double digit growth territory.

Champagne, what do they care? They sell everything they make. Veuve-Clicquot (I was told by a highly placed person in the company) has been in “allocation” mode this year. Regardless of how you fell about any brand of Champagne, one can rest easily knowing the plans the Champenoise have for their brand can take you or leave you. Not so with Prosecco.

The 31st Dec 1

James Di Carlo delivers the pies

Do you ever have one of those weeks when all you can say is “What do you say?” Well, let me tell you, this has been one of those weeks. We entered into the final month of the O-N-D wine selling season and we are just hitting our stride. Lots going on. Let’s get right into it.

First off, I was with a young salesman in an account today and I told him that Dec 1 was traditionally the busiest day of the year. “Traditionally?” he asked. “Yes” I replied. “That’s so old school.” Uh hum, that it would be. But that’s where my ship launched from and I’m now sailing into my 31st Dec 1. I still get that surge of energy, that certain butterfly in the stomach feeling when Dec 1 rolls around. Call me old school.

No Dignity in Dying

We’ve all read it many times over. The obit said “Shirley died after a courageous battle with ovarian cancer.” Of course, Shirley isn’t anywhere to dispute whether she waged a battle or if it was even courageous. Having written an obituary once upon a time, I know folks stumble together a jumble of words; they’re in pain and shock and are just looking for a little way to assuage the ache. So they make mention of the deceased person's bravery in the face of insurmountable odds. But in reality, none of us are getting out of this alive, no matter how much valor and grit we gather up. We are born to live and then to go away.

I’m in a pensive mood tonight. Live with it. I’ve been doing some looking back. Over decades of joyfully carrying a wine bag into accounts, year after year, many times with wine I now am no longer associated with. But wines that still dot the various wine lists in the regions I have worked in. Not that the influence is due to my influence, if at all. In reality, the longer you are at this game, the more insignificant you come to realize you are.

"In Texas you still live in a happy country."

Two-stepping across Texas with Marco Bacci

Marco Bacci with Damian Mandola near Austin, Texas

How does one top a week of Italian wine in New York? How about piling in a car with an Italian and his wine and traveling across the state from Dallas to Austin, and then to Houston and back to Dallas, in four days? That was my mission this week, back home in Texas with the Tuscan Marco Bacci and wines from two of his properties in Montalcino and the Maremma.

I have just about resigned myself that as long as I deal with Italian wines I will be dealing with Tuscany. And I say that not with a sense of resignation, although it sounds that way, but as an inevitable acceptance of the realities of the wine business in Italy. Tuscany has a lot to say about the way wine from Italy is perceived and they represent a huge portion of the wine made in Italy that comes to America and the rest of the world – correction – Fine wine made in Italy – because Tuscany is a leader and they have a pole position in the high stakes race to make Italian wine seen and thought of as the finest wines in the world.

Full Moon Under the Spell of the Spanish Sun

There are those days when the wine business can be a real treat. Yesterday was one of those. In fact all week has been a textbook “perfect beginning” to the October onslaught. Earlier I was driving home at the 11th hour and thinking about all the wines from the many countries I had tasted. New Mexico, Italy, Texas, Germany, California, Spain, Washington, Australia, Chile, Argentina and Germany. What, no France?

And while it has been a parade of riches from the vineyards of the world, what has really grabbed me? This week, I’d have to say, hands down, that I have been under the spell of Spain.

Starting earlier in the week, when I popped into a room to grab a glass and saw an array of wines from Montilla. Sherry-like, but with their own identity. I blogged about it a little on the business site. That really primed the pump.

Sore Losers

Where O-N-D meets O-M-G

I figured it must be the holiday season when I woke up from a dream that had me arguing for Italian wines on a wine list. During the sacred O-N-D season (October-November-December) where a lot of wine and spirits are moving through the system, the emotions and the expectations run high, so much that they invade the subconscious. My hope is to go into that cavern and try to effect changes on those who dwell more in the unconscious than in the reality I would prefer to see them in. But, alas, after 30 years of battling in the trenches, I have come to realize there are some folks who just will never get it. Do you want to know a secret? I’m Ok with that. Because I have moved on. I am limiting my exposure to the slow pacers and those who don’t run to win. I have found other fields that will accept the seeds I have brought to them from Italy.

It really all gets down to intellectual engagement, for me. I mean, after pounding on a chap for 20 years and he really doesn’t get it, isn’t it time to abandon that plot if there are richer lands to harvest? Yes. And man are they out there.

So rather than lamenting about the many suns that are setting, let me tell you about a sunrise over a rich field.

But they still lead me back...

...To the long and winding road.

In the real world, New Years day was almost a week ago. In the world of making numbers and getting everything taken care of, yesterday was the end of the year, December 37th.

This has been a long, long O-N-D. It started in August and finally ended, days into January. We are tired, but happy. Happy to see it over. But knowing it will start all over again. In fact I am packing my bags and will be on the move for the next few months.

Mercury on a Rising Mississippi

Was I in Paris? Palermo? Havana? Walking along a dark street on my way to a dinner appointment I was reminded of the day that had just unfolded. December in an antique of a city. Cold, misty; still hazy from a million nights of hedonism, chastened by a river.

I started with Sherry, a Fino. It seemed to be a good choice with the amuse bouche of candied pecan, Rio Star grapefruit, lying in a mousseline of bacon. A little micro greens thrown on the top, it looked like a deconstructed Christmas tree, and it did match well with the salty sips of the Spanish wine.

Today's Forecast: Cloudy with a 50% chance of scattered words

You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows

This, time, I didn’t fall off the wine trail, I was thrown off. Sensing the pain of the customers and the salespeople just isn’t a popular commercial philosophy. After all, why let something emotional like a relationship with our clients get in the way of business?

Those who observe say this has been a challenging O-N-D. October was lackluster. After the November elations there has been a little uptick in the restaurants. Steak houses mainly, expense account meals for large roving bands of white middle aged males who are tired from their day in the rough fairways of commerce. Hey, they eat steak and drink red wine. We’ll take it. Maybe slip an Aglianico in there without them knowing it, eh?

Oh-So O-Positive

From the "seeing red from sea to shining sea" dept.

Wow, what a day this one was. Last week, while not yet October (the “O” in O-N-D, the frenetic wine selling holiday season) it sure seemed like it. And while it isn’t quite the wine trail in Italy, the young Italians have come off their trail to dabble in missionary work. These are their stories.

Veronica Lagi comes from Tuscany, lives in Florence with her boyfriend. Works for Castello di Monsanto. Veronica is part of the new wave of young Italians that I write about, those who travel the earth, in search of places to put their wine. China, India, Canada, Sweden, America. This week she was in Texas.

8:30 - A text to our sales rep to see if she had samples. Word was the rep had meetings until noon and I didn’t want Veronica to be waiting around a hotel room. I’d find something to do with her. The day before we did a staff training, so I knew she could handle herself well in the streets.

8:39 – Sales rep texts me back, she was on her way to the sales office to see about samples. We would hook up later. I needed to find some wine.

8:49 - All I had in my closet was the 1985 Il Poggio Riserva, probably not a good wine to schlep around. I called Veronica and we agreed on starting the day at 10:00AM.

10:12 – Veronica jumped into my car at the hotel. We had a wine dinner in the evening, so I called the owner of the restaurant to see if he could meet with us at his corporate offices. Sure. Along the way I was talking to Joey the Weasel, aka Joe Strange Eye, and he said I should go by Sausage Paul’s to pick up a bottle of the current Riserva. Great, then we could also have a good espresso. Sausage Paul was there, cleaning up from the night before when we had a rather late night with the Falesco boys. The week was halfway done, but we were all feeling like it should already be Friday. I had a Dr.’s appt on Friday for this crazy nose problem I’ve been having. Dry weather, stress, and one of my childhood ailments had returned, the nosebleed. And with a nose like mine, this was nothing to take lightly. They had gotten severe and regular lately, and this week they were hitting me like suicide attacks in Baghdad. I was going through Kleenex like a sushi chef went through rice. Not pretty.

10:30 - We get to Sausage Paul’s, grab a bottle of wine and an espresso and head to see the Italian restaurateur. About 45 minutes of conversation, the new Tuscan steakhouse project, discussion of a future Tuscan wine dinner with Monsanto when the steakhouse is finished and lots of good stories. The Italians love to visit these iconic Italian restaurateurs. They have so many stories to tell about how they got to America, how they approach their business and this one was no different, This Italian restaurateur is very successful, lives life as a bella figura, and knows it, and why not? It’s part of his DNA.

11:15 - We part and head to a wine and cheese shop. We have 45 minutes before we are to meet the sales rep, but I go over to the shopping center where we are to meet. Veronica is looking for postcards. We scour the shopping center and find not one. Note to self, find a way to sell some cool vintage postcards in this shopping center. I am sure tourists come here often. Good opportunity to make a little (very little) cash on the side. We head into the wine and cheese shop to meet the buyer(s). The main buyer is in Italy with clients, but there are two affable folks in there and we talk. Hmmm.

12:00 – I rush back to the main office, there is a gent from Spain wanting to meet me to talk about the wines of Ribero del Duero. He has a plane to catch so I offer to take him to the airport so we can talk more and drive at the same time. So American it is to do something like that, as the driving, moving thing and also talking, relationship-building thing can often be a bit of a conflict of attention. But we muddle on through. I don’t know why but I think better when I am swerving through traffic. I am more focused and get to the point better. Not sure if my passenger liked my driving all that well. But we did get him to the airport on time. Along the way, one of my bosses called and asked me where I was. "Where are you? We are having lunch for one of our fellow co-workers.” I tell boss I will meet the group at the restaurant, start without me, I will be there as soon as possible.

12:45 – Zipping through the George Bush tollway was a straight shot, if I didn’t get a speeding ticket. At 80+mph, that was a stretch, but it was in the flow of the traffic.

1:10 – Made it to the restaurant, French. The waiter had just gotten there, working off a major drunk fest from the night before and stumbled in, still slightly drunk and very hung over. We order (he hadn’t gotten to them yet!) and settle in.

1:45 – We’ve had wine, soup and some of the entrees start showing up. My doesn't and the server brings me more soup (I hadn’t asked for more, oh well.) Finally the salmon, strike that, the sole showed up at my setting. “I didn’t order this,” I told the server. “Well, that’s what I wrote down,” he offered haughtily. Whatever, it was getting late and I had a ton of stuff to do. I scraped off the crème sauce and pushed the rice aside and managed to work it out.

2:22 - Lunch finished, we ordered espresso. “Short” I advised the server. “Of course, who do you take us for?” he served back. Minutes later a tall espresso, weak and smelling like dirty water, was pressed towards me.

2:39 – I pick up the sad cup of coffee flavored water and went to the bar. The owner, a friend, was there, and I winked that “go along with me on this” wink. To the waiter I slid the espresso on the bar and said, “You screwed up my entrée and I went with it. But you will not screw up my espresso!” The waiter, still hung over, fumbles and asks me why the vulgarity. “Sir, you are guilty of vulgarity with that sorry excuse for an espresso. Now fix it!” And I return to my table. What a long day this had become,

2:52 – After the proper espresso is brought by a now contrite server, the owner appears at the table with two liter bottles, one a home made lemoncello, the other a grapefruit and blood orange infusion of the same style. Frozen carafes from the freezer. Oh, this wouldn’t be good for productivity. I had, easily, ten more hours in this day before I laid my head upon my pillow. But what the hey, the owner, such a pleasant guy, and the infusions were quite good.

3:12 – Heading out, the waiter sufficiently tazed into compliance, a rep from another company, quite drunk, wants to talk. He and his colleague (girlfriend?) are sitting at the bar getting their drink on. And he wants to talk to me about coming to a retail store and doing an expensive Italian wine class. The lady is dressed seductively, but not improperly for our business, but I am just not in the mood to talk to her male friend. I guess I had the sign still on my back that the waiter had put, the one that say, “He’ll take anything”. Yes I will. To a point. And I had reached that point some time ago.

3:40 – Back in the office, for a moment, to gather my stuff. Somewhere in town my Italian rep is working and I have been setting up meetings with clients from my remote/mobile bunker. I remember there is some paperwork to finish up. Before I know it’s 5:30, the dinner is at 6:00.

5:45 – Walking to my car I feel liquid dripping from my nose. I am wearing a pink shirt. I get in my car and turn it on. Waiting for the car to cool. I apply compresses; the nose is in full bleed-out mode now. I am trying not to panic, but the folks at the restaurant are calling me asking me where I am.

6:00 – I notice my pink shirt now has blood on it, so I must go home, through rush hour traffic and clean up. Meanwhile my nose hasn’t stopped bleeding. I call, text, let everyone know I will be at the wine dinner. But I will be late.

6:22 – A car behind me screeches, the brakes squeal, smoke from the pads, the whole deal. The driver comes within inches of rear-ending me. The adrenalin starts my blood to pumping again. Now my shirt isn’t pink, it’s blood-orange red, kind of a tie-dyed look. I am three blocks from home.

6:45 – I am home now and one hour into this mother of all nose bleeds. I have done everything, counted slowly to 300, applied a cold rag under my lip. Pinched my nose. Nothing is working. I have gotten blood all over the house, my whole world is blood covered. And I am late for the wine dinner.

7:15 – Finally, it is over. I am cleaned up, the mess is contained. But all I can taste is salt and blood. It reminded me of a Spanish wine I once tried. And I hated it. I head to the wine dinner.

7:30 – I am seated at a table with lovely folks. They have had the first course, snails. They were finishing the second, a duck with some kind of berry sauce. I tell the server I will just have the next, the entrée, the steak.

7:38 – The duck appears. The cherry reduction reminds me of something I had being trying to get rid of for an hour and a half. I am sure it was wonderful, but I couldn’t even look at it. I moved it around the plate and the waiter picked it up. Why did he bring it, I wonder, I told him I didn’t want it (I smell a trend here, servers who don’t listen?).

7:55 – The steak appears. With a gob of foie gras and laced with truffle oil. Even with my nose severely hampered by what it has just been through, the truffle oil got through. Now, folks who know me know I once had a run in with truffles, essentially I got a lifetime’s worth of truffle exposure in a few days. I am so done with truffles. But truffle oil, that’s a layer of hell I reserve for Al-Kaida insurgents, someone like a Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Not me. I did my sentence. But truffle oil is still flowing in Texas. So I buck up, tear off a few bites and serve my sentence. The wine helps. Too bad the Sangiovese is so bloody red, though. I am in full overwhelm with the earlier trauma. But the night is young. There is still dessert.

8:30 – Mind you, the wine dinner was lovely. The company was delightful. The wines were spot-on. I just wasn’t in a great space. But I do love my desserts.

8:40 – A mind boggling Vin Santo appears and I start to get a view of the Pearly Gates from whatever level of Hell I had risen out of. And then the dessert showed up. A panna cotta with a cherry/berry reduction sauce. Again with the bloody allegory on the plate. I was defeated, spent, vanquished. I surrendered. But I just couldn’t look at one more glob of coagulated cherry coulis.

9:45 – After tableside conversation, I move to take Veronica on the town for her last night before she goes home to Italy. I head her up to a friend’s pizzeria in an ancient tack shop. On the third floor they have an ice bar and Tuaca and Patron on tap. Light clear, cool, soothing alcohol salves, followed by beer. And hour or two of that, listening to same laid back Texas music from the band on the outdoor patio overlooking this little Western square started to mellow me out. This is the Texas the Italians like to see, but they always get committed to doing wine dinners. I know it’s part of the work and the commitment, I understand. But once in a while you just gotta find time to let a little Texas worm it’s way into one’s heart.

11:30 – Getting late, but I offer to show our young Italian Dallas by night in the car, so we head off in search of the city with the lights. Past the grassy knoll, the historic place where a President perished so many years ago. Down into the deepest parts of the bluesy side, Ellum. The glitzy art district, where the Johnson’s and the Pei’s and the Renzo Piano’s, the Rem Koolhaus’s, all the bright and pretty architectural jewels of the so very wealthy city on the Prairie. This dry Prairie, where many have dreamt large and shed tears and blood for their dreams.

12:15 – A full day. A lifetime in a day, but we made it. To wake up another day and try again. To dream, to bleed, to be alive. But I am still positive, oh so O-positive.

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

The Ring, the King & the Fire

In the course of a few days I have witnessed an almost complete 180° of emotions in the play of events around me. Yesterday was the end of the year, in the wine biz, and one could sense that in this past holiday season, we pressed that squeegee until there was no more to extract. Bone dry. Every last drop. And that’s what we do.

The good news? French wines in December made a huge rebound. Not Bordeaux, but definitely Champagne. And Italian wines? Are we celebrating yet? Yes and no. Yesterday was the Epiphany and in the world in which I revolve around, one of our colleagues brought a Rosca de Reyes, the ring of the king cake. Consider it the Latin equivalent of the Panettone, complete with a little baby Jesus inside for some lucky soul to capture and have good luck.

In these parts, the Italian sensibility is a bit more exotic and removed, so I have gladly latched onto some Latino customs. I am after all putting up scorers of jalapenos. Jalapalooza we called it. The Fire.

I am on fire. After a selling season it is hard to come down. The curtains have closed and the lights are dimming, but I am just getting my groove on. People are coming to think of Italian wine as something in their daily lives.

Flash back a generation ago, when I was just getting my bearings here. I’d go to Italy and come back home and couldn’t even find a decent espresso. Things in Italy haven’t changed that much since then – there still is a consciousness of quality, especially when it comes to food and wine and design. Sure, Italy is evolving and even regressing in some societal ways, but it isn’t difficult to find food and wine to bring one to one’s knees, on a regular basis.

The Epiphany – the tree comes down now – the little angels that my aunt and my mom made, go back into the boxes for another year.

Here, I am finding the pull of the local, the indigenous, that draws me in. My jalapenos are curing and through the cold months they will provide me with warmth and light.

There I was with a mountain of jalapeno’s and a free afternoon. I had to set the mood, so I put on a Nino Rota cd of music he composed for Fellini movies. Why not?

Cutting jalapenos to the sounds of “Suite dal balletto La Strada" or "Via Veneto E I Nobili" it was a Heaven and Hell scenario. I loved the music, but my eyes were tearing up from the pungency of the peppers. Rota also composed music for the film version of Visconti’s “Gattopardo”, Zeffirelli's “Romeo and Juliet” and Coppola’s “Godfather”, so I have grown up with the music of Nino Rota in defining moments of my life.

Odd that the music, which has been running through my head the past few days, has been a sort of a soundtrack for my life too. It has defined some of the ways I see Italy, been my sonic filter to an Italy imagined. In no way does the Italy in my head exist. But then, did Fellini’s Italy really exist? Or di Lampedusa’s? And so it goes, I lived life the past 40 years with an idea of Italy that is not real. So why should Italian winemakers listen to me when I tell them what America wants or needs? I grow Hoja Santa for my local cheese maker and put up fiery hot peppers to eat, peppers which the average Italian stomach cannot digest?

Gold, frankincense and myrrh. Sangiovese, Nebbiolo and Montepulciano. Panettone, Rosca de Reyes and Kings cake. Christmas, Valentine’s day and Mardi Gras. Everything merges into everything.

Yes, it has been a long holiday season. Yesterday was the 37th of December, the end of a long cycle. Happy New Years. Finally.

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

“Cris” Kringle, Hot Shots, Dream Wines & Mad(e) Men

One more day to go for calendar year 2009. Yesterday Sausage Paul was in the mood to pop a few bottles, starting with some Nicky Feuillatte Rose’ Palmes d’or. I dropped by his place in the morning with a little "bling" for his New Year stocking. I know Luca Zaia is trying to get everyone in Italy to drink Italian sparklers. But here in Texas we have an affliction to mix it up. And bubbles are part of the reason we liven up after working three months non-stop to try and get as much wine into the hands of deserving folks in these parts. But today was birthday for two gents, Paul and Joe Akers.

We need a name for Joe Akers, something that fits his demeanor. Let’s see, he likes wine, women and money. How about Joey the Whack? Anyway it was Sausage Paul and Joey the Whack’s tandem birthday – imagine born on the same day in the same year – separated at birth and joined together by a love for Amarone.

Joey the Weasel (aka Joe Strange Eye) couldn’t make it. He was busy loading up his vehicle to make hot shot deliveries to restaurants that had last minute “needs.” A coupe of days ago we had five minutes of snow and everybody in town panicked, started canceling New Year’s reservations, And then when the snow melted, 10 minutes later, everyone, and then some, called back, panicking that they wouldn’t get a New Years Eve seat in the restaurant of their choice. Anywho, Joe couldn’t make it.

A couple of veterans and a young lion did show up though. Adelmo was in rare form. Everyone brought a bottle of wine from their stash. Jermann’s "Dreams", the ’05 La Louviere, a tanned and sassy ’97 Solaia, a 2000 Ghiaie della Furba from Capezzana, a 93 Brunello and a bubbly from the Texas, Mexico, New Mexico border town of Canutillo, Texas. Huh? I’d never heard of it either, but there it was from the Zin Valle Vineyards, predictably named “Rising Star.” Well, of course.

Adelmo is my neighbor and man, his trash can fills up with a lot of wine bottles during the holidays. Today we had a beautiful lineup for the recycle tub. And we got to try wines from France, Italy and Texas before the year expires.

After the Rose’, Adelmo poured me a glass of deep yellow wine. I didn’t look at the label but when I tasted it I thought I was drinking a passito chardonnay. I didn’t recoil from it, but it caught me off guard. “I love this wine,” Adelmo proclaimed. “I don’t know what it is about it, but everything is in place with this wine for me.” I could see that. It was spoofulated and statuesque, but not grotesque. It went well with the ceviche. Ok, I’d go along for the ride.

A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams."

The last time I had the 2005 La Louviere was in Bordeaux out of the barrel. This time it was showing “advanced tendencies”. The wine seemed super-ripe, California-like. Odd. Again, Adelmo’s is a vortex and funny things happen in his place. We were sitting there making fun of each other; he likes to claim that Sicily is the only Arab country that has never invaded Israel. I countered that one cannot really allege to be Tuscan when their claim to fame is as one of the bastards of Napoleon when he was marooned on Elba. A couple in the corner heard our banter and the young lass let out a whoop. I think she wanted to join the drinking party (and she eventually did). But that is the way we rolled that day.

Adelmo’s friend, Danny, who got out of the retail wine and sprits biz (but not out of real estate), brought a bottle of ’97 Solaia. Danny and Joey the Whack and Adelmo are travel buddies who go to Italy from time to time. They leave a trail of broken “Dream” bottles wherever they go.

All of us are tied to one or the other in the wine biz. Beat, "The Swiss Missile" we all have known for so long, is a passionate guy about any kind of wine. And he is fiercely competitive. David is the other “money” guy in the group; he loves to eat and travel and drink wine and make money, so now he’s part of the tribe of characters. The Young Lion, Ben, has these wild looking eyes – if you didn’t know him you might think he’s getting ready to cloud up and rain on you. But he’s good. He loves wine and selling for his small company and he was so proud of loading up his car with the Texas Bubbly and going out with hand invoices to deliver the wine on the spot. I remember doing that a generation ago with an Italian Novello. It’s front line excitement, making things happen, right here, right now. Feels good.
A pasta dish with clams (why do those waiters bring the cheese around to ask us if we want any?) followed by a lamb chop (with more pasta, this time gnocchi) and then a small plate of veal. My regimen is getting close to being shot this day. We open the Super (reductive) Tuscan from Capezzana. These guys loved it – but they also love big red wine from the Veneto and Napa. I get it; I was on that bus once upon a time.


A mystery carafe appears – a 93 Brunello – from Banfi – maybe the Poggio all’Oro? It was pretty calm compared to the previous wines (that’s right) and it was almost in a hibernative-stage. We were moving through wine pretty fast now.

Slabs of bread pudding appeared on a small plate along with another wine, Feudi di San Gregorio "Privilegio", a botrytis passito of Fiano from Cotarella. I had a slight epiphany here. Cotarella knows how to do ripe, fruity, rich. I wonder what he could do with a Sagrantino in the “old style”. He does an Aleatico that’s a jam-fest. The Privilegio was a little over the top, but it was in keeping with the general theme of the day.

To come (full?) circle, we ended with the Texas Brut, which was fruity. “Rising Star” from Canutillo, Texas. A stone’s throw from Juarez.

The young lass who was admiring our tall tales and all the wine finally came over to see what the stir was all about. Her lunch companion had to get back to work. Some people do have to stoke the fires of the American economy, after all. So we toasted him and he set sail, while she looked at the lineup in amazement. For all I know, they might all still be there drinking in the New Years. As for me and Adelmo, she shot us in our Spy vs. Spy coats. Mine was a gift from a friend whose husband (who was a real Mad Man on NY in the 1950’s and ‘60’s) had passed away. It was a great gift to go into the next year, with a vintage Burberry Spy coat, with hidden pockets. Big enough to hide a bottle of Cristal. Or Jacques Selosse? Like I said, we like to mix it up in flyover country.



See you in 2010!

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

Christmas Miracles and Mythical Traditions

“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given"

Leo's First Christmas

This little guy, who looks strikingly like his handsome dad, Giulio and beautiful mom, Stacy and sister Gia, is Leonardo Galli. He came into this world not long after Jan 1 of this year, but way before he was “due.” At a little less than 2 pounds, little Leo, the young lion, roared into this world. On Mother’s Day weekend, he finally came home to live with his mom and dad and sister in San Antonio. Merry Christmas, Leo and family. You've come a long way, baby! We are so glad to see you growing up so fast and healthy.

Leo the Warrior with Papa's wedding ring on his arm - long before he came home

This week Sausage Paul invited me and Joey the Weasel (who now wants to be known as Joe Strange Eye, ever since his accident with the shop-vac) along with Adelmo Banchetti, venerable Dallas restaurateur, and an entourage of wealthy financiers and beautiful women, to the Italian Club, for the Feast of the Seven Fishes (festa dei sette pesci). There were hundreds of Italians and Italian Americans assembled for this traditional feast that may or may not really originate in Italy. I have made a little film (here), interviewing people from first generation immigrant Italians to folks who have been here so long they don’t remember where they came from in Italy. I apologize for the length of the clip, as I generally believe any video over two minutes is too long. But if you have the patience, there are some priceless comments, from Adelmo's always entertaining “take” on things to Luigi Mungioli’s insistence that his family did indeed celebrate festa dei sette pesci in his home town in Campania (his wife is not as adamant). Marilisa from Sicily was the star of the show with her on camera presence. I told her she "photographed well" on camera, and she blushed. Marilisa is pregnant and in full female bloom, a beautiful sight.

There is an entertaining explanation from a family who came from Cefalu and settled on the Texas-Louisiana border (known in these parts as Laplanders). The outgoing Italian Club president, Dominic, who grew up in the Northeast of America and whose mother came from Sicily, gave a presentation whereby he explained that the custom most likely originated in America, most likely by Sicilian Americans on the East Coast. Growing up on the West Coast, I have no recollection of my Sicilian family ever celebrating the festa dei sette pesci, other than vague remembrances of eating fish on Christmas Eve. Interestingly in the crowd, when Dominic was presenting his paper, there were utterances of disbelief by Italian Americans who swore the custom originated in Italy. I think it most likely an American tradition, and so be it. After all, we are living in America.

Saw this church between stopping at the tamale shop
and the cheese shop - sanctuary for wayward sheep

Speaking of living in America, I have posted my polemic on Palate Press, on the desideratum for the three-tier system of wine disbursement. Suffice to say, there are heated arguments on both sides, already in the comment sections folks are queuing up to take their shots. Hey it’s a free country. Like a friend said, "When it comes to wants and needs we Americans often line up in the 'I want the world and I want it now' camp or the 'I want my MTV' camp or the 'Give me my freaking goods, dude' camp, depending on which generation is proclaiming their inalienable rights." Good luck to all – This is one for the lawyers who would have to get the issue in front of the Supreme Court to argue the repeal of the 21st amendment and cause the dismantling of an industry that supports hundred of thousands of families. I don’t know too may politicians who are lining up to put more people out of work these days. Summum Bonum.

And we have one more day to get those little bottles of wine in the hands of folks who just got to have a bottle of wine tonight. Snow is predicted. We’ll be stocking and box cutting and espresso sipping and doing our mano a mano relationship marketing at our favorite Italian wine shop in the world. Come see us!

Buon Natale, tutti!

Class Act - Importer Tom Beckman, stocking wine in his Armani blazer,

wearing Prada frames and sporting his trademark limited edition

TAG Heuer Monaco "Steve McQueen" chronograph

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

On a Hot Streak During a Cold Snap

I must be crazy.

Wednesday morning I awoke to sub-freezing temperatures. My Hoja Santa long past giving up the ghost, I set out to check on my arugula and radicchio plantation. The radicchio had relocated to one of Dante’s hells but the arugula was fighting to stay alive. I covered it and under the cover of a late autumn fog I headed off to catch a plane to Houston.

The night before I had gotten a call from a colleague who had informed me that I had gotten removed as moderator to panelist on a blogger/social network round table that the Italian Trade Commission was doing in NY in Feb. “They bumped you for someone who had more name recognition – Andy Blue.”

I am in the habit of understanding that Italian government employees work in a separate reality, so while I was disappointed I wasn’t surprised. After a round of emails to other folks on the panel and in the bloggy-blog world, I realized there was an opportunity to be on the panel rather than to moderate it..

Last year at the Italian extravaganza in NY, what did they call it - Vino 2009 - where there were all kinds of seminars and dinners and awards and tastings and everyone left NY feeling all warm and fuzzy? Well they will do it again next year in Feb, Vino 2010. And I will trek from La Jolla to Dallas to New York to show up and be a good soldier for the cause of Italian wine and the bloggy-blog world.

Thinking that the social network can hold up just fine without me for a day or two, I ventured into the wine jungle that is Houston. 30 degrees warmer than Dallas, which was a welcome change. But hopefully I would be able to embrace the deeper side of things Italian, especially during this moment when all things sharp turn smooth and all things bitter turn sweet.

A warm porchetta at Giacomo's and the welcome embrace of Lynette with a bottle of Trebbiano was a good start. Beets, cauliflower and a little taste of insalata di mare misto sent my altered regimen of eating into the stratosphere, if just for a day. But here, as I have written before, is a place that gets the sensibilities of things Italian. Thankfully the Houston restaurant reviewer, Alison Cook, totally gets it. Great review, lots of business. Read here.

We slipped over to another friend’s place, this one a bit more of a challenge because the next generation is taking the reins of the business, slowly. Still, this has been a field we have steadily plowed over the years. Houston is just too young of an urban blot to make a deep enough impression on the Italian experience in America, even though the Sicilian heritage is long and deep.

Running over to Tony’s to taste with Jon and his colleague; Rosenthal wine rep was there with a full bevy of great French and Italian wines. The Piedmont wines from De Forville and Brovia were showing gorgeously. Also opened were a Nero d Avila from Las Lumia which was stinky and wild and wonderful and a Primitivo from Pichierri that was equally savage in its unbridled refusal to surrender to the Rollandization of wine. Very happy to taste these wines with the Rosenthal examples. All these years showing these wines to somms and wine stores and not having anything to go on but my story and a hope that folks would connect with these authentic examples of individualism in Italian winemaking. Very happy.

Later in the day the very same colleague who had to break the news that I had been bumped in favor of Andy Blue called again. “You’re Calabrese aren’t you?” I didn’t know if I was in trouble for something, but I said, “Well, yes, my mother’s family came from there.” My friend then asked me to moderate a panel on Calabria wines.”The Italian Trade Commission felt bad about the way they disregarded you and they wanted to ask you if you would help out with the Calabrese panel.” Being a good soldier, I said sure. Look, my life is pretty good; all things are working out just fine. I always remember the energy of this whole thing revolves around the wine gods and sometimes you gotta serve somebody.

And that, dear listeners, is 24 hours in the life of an Italian wine guy, on the wine trail, this time in Houston during a cold snap. Mmm, gotta find me an amaro before I call it a day.

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