Wanted: Wine Tastemakers – Older White Men Need Not Apply?

Feb. 29, 2040

Dear Salem Morgon,

Thank you for your inquiry regarding the position we posted. We are currently screening the next level candidate for our wine tastemaker stint and you have made the cut. Congratulations!

As you know, we are currently recruiting candidates to form a dynamic new team for ViniVer§Ω as THE preeminent and never-before-seen #WineInfluencer Neoteric Eno-zine. The next step for us, with you, is to further ascertain if you will be a good fit, on our soon-to-be award-winning squad!

So, let’s get down to it, por qué no?

“喜劇結束了” - The State of Italy - Wine, Culture, All of It - in 2120

“Italian investment of time and resources in importing wine to China will ultimately turn out to be a big mistake. The Chinese will eventually get their production to a level where they can be seen as prestigious as the first growths of Bordeaux (the French are complicit in helping them get there, and along the way, have sold their souls for a buck). And when the state media of China convinces Chinese (or compels them) to be loyal to their homegrown wine, which is better than anywhere else in the world, "La Commedia è finita" [ 喜劇結束了]. Italian wine will have been pared down to miniscule levels, and will be so rare and exclusive as to be the private domain of billionaires and NPC apparatchik. You and I will be dead then.” – Luisa Parker-Ragg in 2020

Assisi - February 14, 2120 A.D.

Where to start? As everyone knows by now, around 2040, things got tough for Italians in these parts. The Chinese population alone in Tuscany was nearing 500,000, displacing many generations of Tuscans who died in the 1st Pandemic of 2020. Along with that, the birth rate declined so extensively that it was hard to keep some of our industries going. Native manufacturing all but disappeared. And farming wouldn’t have survived if not for AI. Vineyards began to shrivel, with no one to work the land. And then, as if overnight, we found out that China owned 58% of Italian land and industry. We had been invaded, overrun and taken over by our own hubris and inertia. Now we are a colony.

A late-night dispatch from a tired and wary Italian wine export agent in China

[ Imagine a scenario where Italian wine exporters, winemakers and their agents make their twice (or thrice) yearly pilgrimage to China in search of trade and success. And imagine, if you will, one of those agents sending a note in the middle of the night. It has happened many times, and as such, this one emanated from one of those cold, dark, lonely rooms, overlooking a pop-up city of millions in the middle of the night.]

Dear A,

It’s 3 A.M. and I got into my room two hours ago. I’m writing to you because it’s afternoon where you are, and back home in Italy people have sat down to their Sunday dinner. They have other, more important things on their mind than my travails in the Middle Kingdom.

I’ve just come in from another wine banquet, this time in Zhengzhou. Course after course, some recognizable, some as foreign as the Chinese characters on the signs. And wine, Italian wine. Multiple vintages of this wine or that wine. In my case, it is our Brunello, which goes back many years. How our hosts found the 1955, I’ll never know. We don’t even have it in our cave back home. But that seems to be the way it is in China. One can find things seemingly lost to history. On the other hand, one can find that here the past is shunned, forever lost. At least the truth of history. But that’s what it must be like when you live under the rule of a leader who had himself voted ruler for life. God, what I’d give to have a plate of spaghetti con peperoncino aglio olio right now, to settle my stomach and to rid my palate from the taste of smoked duck and soy.

Burning Man At 50 - Five Gen ΑΩ Women Who Are Changing Wine and the World

Reporting from Black Rock City, August 31, 2036...

This is Leia Rippley; I am now 85. And as they say, 85 is the new 30, thanks to nano-extenders and the little solar generator that keeps my heart pumping. With global warming, there is plenty of sun, and Black Rock City, with its average temperature, this time of the year, at 125°F, my heart has another 40-50 years. That is if Terra does. Fortunately, I also had a vortex personal cooling rib-cage installed in 2025, and have only had to rebuild it three times. But, it’s all good, I’m cool.

The wine that tried to kill me

Oh, how we’ve aggrandized wine to a beatific eminence. It is the alpha, the omega. It is sexy. It is alluring. It is dangerous. And it’s a killer. Or at least, on one occasion it tried to kill me. No, I’m not talking about excessive intake of alcohol, getting into a car and heading down the tollway, on the wrong side, at 2 AM. This attempt on my life was imbued with further nuance than that.

The Fate of Italian Wine in a Strange, New America

All across Italy there is an army of souls standing over fermenting tanks, hoses running everywhere, with the ubiquitous sweet-sour scent of fermentation, laboring long hours in the annual miracle of grapes into wine. And thousands of miles away, their largest market, America, is shattering day by day, self-destructing in a miasma of fear and rancor. To the farmer and the winemaker, it is like being a chef on a luxury liner that is heading towards an iceberg, preparing dinner for a room full of people who might never see dessert. And still they hover over the barrels in ancient chambers, in the dark, hoping to husband this fermenting mess of must into something miraculous and wonderful. And for whom? For these new American barbarians? While this is nothing new to the Italian culture which has often been between Scylla and Charybdis, this does nevertheless present a present-day dilemma, which has concrete, material implications. But it also advances a metaphysical plight. How does one expect to nurture and grow their business among their largest audience when that audience is undergoing a societal seppuku?

Wail Watching in the City of the Angels

Another week, this time in my native place. As a native Angeleno (and Californiano), the circumstance of my birth was preceded by the dreams and desires of my grandparents. It was the American Dream they were seeking, their El Dorado. I just happened to come along when I did.

Because of those fortuitous strokes I witnessed the procession of Italian-American life on a stage where there were limitless horizons, no boundaries, no walls. America was a place where anyone could dream big.

Getting All Caught Up in the Tangle of this Grape Thing

It’s 4:00 AM and I’m staring at the ceiling in bed, eyes wide open. And I’m thinking about wine. Wine, wine, wine. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was supposed to be retired, and to move on, to putter in the garden, travel a bit, to ply about in the darkroom on my photo portfolio, hang out with the animals, ride my bike, and get off the freeway of the wine world. And this work thing. I’m still trying.

A Grand and Beautiful Italian Dilemma

I’ve been in Italy for three weeks now. It has been more than 40 years that I have spent this much time in Italy in one, uninterrupted period. As a result, my perspective on Italy is shifting.

How Influential is an Influencer?

From the Navel-gazing Observatory on the Italian wine trail

Recently, I peered into the petite armoire of a colleague in wine who passed away a few years back. I was looking in on her husband and had time to dig around the wine collection. What I found was a cornucopia of disparate bottles - some deeply iconic wines, and some which just happened to find themselves ensconced in the little closet along with the rest. There were “unicorn” wines in there by the boatload, and there was a bevy of unadorned wines as well. It sent me down a rabbit hole, wondering “Why do we long for what we long for?”

Six days in an Italian jail

A story inspired by real-life events...

What would you do if, all of a sudden, you couldn’t drink wine? If the forces of destiny didn’t allow you the freedom you had become accustomed to? To go where you want to go. To see who you want to see and to eat and drink what you want to?

For those of you who have experienced Italy, whether by living there or by visiting, one of the great things about the place is the access to beauty in its many forms. And isn’t beauty a piece of the truth? To sit on a table next to a vineyard, with light spring weather, cool but not cold, and a breeze which is bringing in pollen and butterflies and sand from the Sahara. To tear apart a fresh loaf of crusty bread, to have a platter of salumi and cheese, and a bottle of fresh wine from the nearby vineyard. Things many of us take for granted. To be able to walk out into the field, to be able to sing, to dance, to hug someone you love.

On the Nature of Being Sicilian in the Wine Business

Lest you think this will be the obligatory paean to all things Sicilian, after these last days spent on the island, many things are simmering. Yes, it is a Sunday, and to the millennials this might sound like a sermon. Pity.

How does one explain the blood in the veins? How does one look at a street, year after year, and still struggle to recognize what is right in front of one’s eyes? How much analysis is required to decode the Sicilian passeggiata of the last 40 years? I am obsessed with this. This is my mental mistress, never letting me inside the private chamber, ever tempting me with the promise of understanding, of clarity, of revelation.

An Italian Sommelier’s Diary: The Nightmare Table

The scene is an urban setting somewhere in the Western half of the United States. A wine waiter is working a large party of folks who are celebrating. Maybe they have just come from the Emmys. Or perhaps the stars aligned to have all these people in a room at the same time, partying. Our sommelier is called over to a table of seven, four women and three men. At which point I will yield to the wine steward, who will relate the following events in his own voice.

History's Lessons Drowned in Red Wine

♫ Just take everything down to Highway 61 ♫

Maybe it’s the little 60’s marathon I am running in my head, but lately it seems like we are doing everything we can to kill the wine business in the world. Actively. No, it’s not like we are sitting around doing nothing; we are marching full speed with this one. Or maybe it’s just an overactive imagination once again seared by the blinding triple digit heat of summer. Maybe it is time for a real vacation.

Where to start? Just a few random thoughts and then back to a really busy day.

1) Selling all your wine to one country at the highest price possible will come back to bite you in the ass. Yeah, I’m talking to you Bordeaux. You say it’s a luxury item? Yeah, so is Ferrari, and that’s an even bigger business than Bordeaux. But Ferrari has found a way to build their business in the world – in Russia, and yes in China and India, but also in America. As well as in their home market. And it ain't exactly like a Ferrari is cheap. In fact, Fiat has been kicking around the idea to sell Ferrari, because it is so valuable. Maybe if France ever gets in trouble like Greece (or Portugal, or Spain, or Italy?) they can seize the First Growths as a National Asset and sell the whole kit-and-caboodle to, I don’t know, General Foods? You think I’m kidding? Wait and watch. But one thing for sure, Bordeaux, you’re killing us softly with your song…

Sweet Figs & Red Hot Peppers or Muzak & Malbec?

from the "one of these things is not like the other" dept.

“I need you to go have lunch at you know where,” the salesman left me the message. Usually when he leaves one like that we need to go in there and spend a little money. Oh well, how bad could it be, four star rating  with no lack of talent in the kitchen. A shame the chef usually scowls when you walk in the place looking to drop some cash.

So it went this week in my little corner of the world. Some good, some bad, some in the middle, some out, some in. July is here, it’s so damn hot, thank heavens my little isola is brimming with life.

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.

New Oil

Another year has come and vanished. Another harvest. And the new oil is now here. New oil, showing us the promise of the harvest in its sharpest, youngest, most fiery expression. Lovely stuff, as long as you just taste a little bit. Not too much.

Baby Please Don't Go

Fragments of dreams, thoughts, imaginings….

“What do you expect of me?” Voices were raised. I could hear from behind the closed door, but always it would end the same way. One or the other would walk out and take off. High drama in an Italian family.

A few hours, or days later, there would be a truce. A semi-resolution for the sake of the kids. And life would go back to normal. For a while.

And then there would be the pasta, too long cooked, or the sauce that didn’t have the onions properly strained. Or there would be too much pepper. Or not enough salt. Or the bacon wasn’t crisp. Or the hash browns weren’t brown enough. Or the fish was too limp, the sausage too firm. And on and on it would go like this, all through many Italian-American households, in the days after the war.

It’s amazing how any of us grew up to like food and wine.

Or was it just an isolated experience, imagined, as many things of childhood are?

The Salesman, the Sommelier and the Supermodel

A vertical of Brunello and a slab of meat or a delicate glass of champagne and a beautiful woman – which would you choose?

It’s Monday, day after Ferragosto, I’m still in a suit and tie, end of the day, grand tasting at a wine conference, Texsom. The day after I have a 9:00 AM tasting with another journalist, 50+ wines and roughly two hours to get the job done. This day, I have arranged the wines, made sure they are the correct vintages, vineyards, temperature and lined up a room. Outside it is still blazing at 105°F. But at this moment there is a room filled with wines from all over the world and somewhere inside there is Champagne.

I make it around the room, only, at the last stop, to find the bubbles. If I had gone counter-clockwise I would have found it first, but I might have just stopped there. After a sip of the sparkling wine, I head back to taste wines, when I ran smack-dab into a wall of truffle oil.

“What was that chef thinking?” I ask myself. The pungent odor of truffle knocks out half my nose. The other half is running as fast and as far from the center of the room. Recalibrating. Recalibrating.

A friend hands me a bottle of a single vineyard Etna Rosso, nice. A Twitter buddy tells me on the other aside of the room there are some interesting Italian wines. Let’s go see.

In the corner I spot an importer sales-rep, one of those old-school guys who loves a tussle in the streets. Not a bad guy, good wines, a little overbearing. But I have my fly swatter if I need it.

A sommelier friend is there chatting me up with a story about how he has gotten his older mother to move from sweet wine to a drier style. Really a great story and probably a blog post in the future. What I love about the story is that this fellow deals with the best of the best and the wealthiest of the wealthy. He opens great wines on a regular basis. But he is so well grounded that he is still working on upgrading his mom to a better wine, albeit incrementally. That’s all the spoiler I will offer.

There we are, talking, the salesman and the sommelier and me, and as if she had just been beamed down, a tall, lanky, tanned, gorgeous woman appears. She is wearing a tunic and sandals. She has long wavy hair, and looks like something out of Greece, 6th century BC. I note in the corner of my eye as my two gents are chatting and think, “Where in time did she come from?” I really thought she was an apparition. And in August, with this heat, and sipping wine, it wouldn’t be totally out of the question.

A day later, hunkered over a table full of wines, the first wine I would open would be a sparkling rose of Nerello Mascalese. As I opened the cork, the wine would spew forth, frothy, but cool to the touch, blushing, ready. The Sicilian sparkler imitating life. Wines have funny ways to portray their territoriality. But that is in the future; now we have a room full of frantic salespeople, exhausted sommeliers and the lone supermodel, sipping wine.

“It’s my birthday today,” she notes. “What are you doing here?” one of us asks. (What do you mean asking her that, do we really want to stare at each other all night?). She offers up an explanation that she is working in town and someone had noticed her at the pool, alone, and invited her to the tasting.

A colleague calls me over to another table and I excuse myself, but the way she bends her head towards the glass and gives me a look, with just one of her eyes, beckons me to revisit at another point. I note it and hesitantly saunter off.

Fearing this was getting a little too Nabokov-esque, I move on with my business, but as I avoid the truffle table, I notice her sitting alone. I remember something my sister told me about pretty woman and how lonely they are because men are often afraid to approach them. I gather my courage to walk past the truffle table, grab a glass of sparkling wine and head back though the feculent fog.

I hand her a glass of the Champagne, wish her a happy birthday. She invites me to sit down. We talk.

It seems like minutes, but it was an hour or more. I notice the room is emptying; the overhead lights are dimming and brightening. It is time to go.

Further ahead, at a fancy feast, sommeliers are sipping on several vintages of elderly Brunello and carving chunks of meat to match.

I walk out of the room with the most beautiful woman in it and the words of Nabokov taunt me, ripping me from this vision and slinging me back into the still blazing night, leaving me with only these words:

"Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don't stop to think, don't interrupt the scream, exhale, release life's rapture. Everything is blooming. Everything is flying. Everything is screaming, choking on its screams. Laughter. Running. Let-down hair. That is all there is to life. "

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

An Antonioni Set in a Noir Ortona

Excuse me while I go a little deep into the Italian heart of darkness with this one. I’m sure most of you all are tired of the panoply of apparel, Pecorino and pasta porn these past few days.

The further south I go, the deeper a sense of crisis has been surfacing. Last night, during a stopover in Ortona, I started noticing some tribal rumblings. Youth hanging out on the streets, nothing to do but have foreplay and fiddle with drugs. I saw it in Genova 20 years ago and in Sicily 40 years ago. This is like being stuck in an Antonioni movie written by Pasolini.

Even a business encounter seemed edgy and clipped. I am not new to this area. But once again, I am the outsider. Now, what is going on in Italy?

Maybe it’s the earthquake. Maybe it’s the volcano. Maybe it’s Greece. Maybe it’s Berlusconi. But something is stirring. The Lega Nord signs in Ortona seem ominously similar to the movement that spawned a Mussolini. Except this time the object isn’t to unite but to divide. And after that for whom to conquer?

It felt like someone was waiting for the hammer to fall or the bomb to drop. And the youth, i vitelloni, in the countryside, hanging out amidst the wild thrushes as we zipped past them on dark little provincial roads. I swear I stepped back into the 1970’s. Something strange has gripped this area.

In a restaurant by the sea, nearly empty. It was a Monday, ok, alright. But the young server, her method so deliberate, such a high level of care for the food and the wine. She was veiled behind a wall of shyness, or was there a sprinkle of fear in there as well.

Walking on a beach in the darkness waiting for the sun, the sea, the summer breeze. But in this moment it was the scene of a potential transgression. Odd, how there seemed to be this vein of apprehension.

“When America was America, anything, everything was possible.” A European and an American sitting at a table talking about the world that is supplanting their dominance with the rising sun from The East. We are being reduced to serving Asia and simultaneously being slaves to their cheap products because we have trained ourselves that the cheapest is the best.

Meanwhile the server pours us a sparkling Pecorino, then a Cococciolo, an indigenous white, while the bounty of the sea below us is being served up on little plates under incandescent lights. People my age, who have lived under this regimen, this “Italianita”, seem reticent to change. “America is the change place.” Still they look to America to send their Nina’s their Pinta’s and their Santa Maria’s loaded up with the bounty of the lands, no?

Back on the beach at midnight, walking slowly, I came across a bottle that had washed up on shore. It was a wine bottle that had been scrubbed soft by the sand over the years. What promise did that bottle have for the people involved with the making of it and the wine inside? What dreams did the people have? Did they work to spend a holiday on this beach in August? Did they labor to buy a little home on the cliff, only to leave it as an entitlement to some thankless niece or son?

Three young boys running towards me, the sea slapping to my side, a dog barking at a passing train and above a fighter jet races by, patrolling the coast. Antonioni would love this.

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