Over the past year a little thread has been drifting past me. I hear a story about a couple going to Italy to spend time on a large yacht, another story about a fellow who travels to Italy with a concierge-in-waiting. A trend, or something that has always been there? It seems there is a whole 'nother Italy for a group of people who travel. I call it Italy-in-a-bubble.
For Americans who don’t travel much outside of their comfort zone, which in the last eight years there seems to have been a surge, there is the experience of getting on a very comfortable plane and going to the Italian peninsula. Once the craft touches ground, it seems everything is done to make sure this elite group of travelers never touches their feet on true Italian soil. Usually some kind of driver is waiting there to pick these affluent souls up out of the squalor in which the natives squat, and then there are whisked to some 5 or 6 or 7 star resort, the ones with the 800 count sheets and the white-goose-only down pillows. Or better yet, whisked straight to a port, like Naples or Ostia, where an offshore vessel awaits, private chef, staff and ambience included.In the last month I have had a handful of people tell me they were “going to Italy” and described something similar to what I just laid out. Then they asked me where they should go once they got to Italy.
My first answer? How about going off the reservation? Dump the boat, get on land, get your Cole Haan’s dirty, and step outside of your protective cover. Inotherwords, go to Italy.First of all, you are not a high ranking government official who needs security. What you need is some oxygen. Dress down; you can “do a Google” to help you find out how to do that. And get out of the hands of your handlers.
I understand it is difficult to go into a strange land where the language is different and the food comes from a garden instead of a freezer. Or that you might have to try the fresh Swordfish when you’d really rather have Chicken Parmesan.
Chi mangia solo crepa solo.So you travel halfway across the world in your private jet or in business class with the headphones and the champagne and the lay-down seat. And you get to the airport where someone is waiting for you. And you are whisked away to a private resort on some secluded hilltop town that has been remade for the travel-elite, so you can rest from your journey. Then what? Is there a plan B, someway to escape the Stalag?
A million years ago I was in Naples for the first time. I was traveling alone, with a backpack and a couple of cameras. I decided to walk west from the Marina, see what I could see. It was August. About 10 miles later I end up in a little place called Pozzuoli. In those days there were lots of cork products, shoes made of cork, you name it. I didn’t have a lot of money, but I wasn’t too broke to buy a groovy pair of cork-soled sandals. I was surely not traveling the elite route, but it was the real Italy.Along the way I met scads of children who were amazed at this tall, Italian-looking, jean-wearing alien. I spoke even less Italian than now. But you know what? That day was one of the great memories of travel for me, ever.
Sure I was out of my element. And I was walking alone in a poor part of Italy, that only 25 years earlier had seen war and destruction and famine. Starvation. Poverty. Got the picture? The children, many of whom are now the folks running the place, what were they going to do to me, rob my soul? Let’s say someone took a roll of film or even a camera, or a pair of jeans, so what? But it didn’t happen. Old women sitting on the outside of their homes greeted me as if I were a grandson. Some invited me in for a bowl of pasta, a glass of wine. That wonderfully real Campanian stuff. Kids wanted me to take pictures of them and kick the soccer ball around with them. Merchants wanted me to take things home for a pittance (this was the era when the dollar was worth 600 lire, and you could buy a meal for about 1100 lire).
I didn’t have a place to go back to. The super yacht wasn’t waiting off the coast for me to finish my day with the natives. There wasn’t a concierge in a Mercedes waiting up the street, car running, air conditioner conditioning. And guess what, I survived. Not only that, but with memories more golden than the sunset from that isolated cruiser that was never there waiting for me. And for those souls on those super-yachts who think they got a taste of the real Italy, or real anything, I am sorry for them. Because they got the freezer. For those who take that step outside of their Italy-in-a-bubble, they get the garden.
So who is basking in affluence, in the end? Is it the wealthy trophy wife who got off for an hour to go shopping at the boutiques in Capri? Or the young student with a backpack and a dream? I know which road I took, and will continue to take, as long as the real Italy will be there for me. And the deeper you go, the more gold you will find. And that is something that can never be taken from you, never pick-pocketed, never, ever goes away. Because it is the stuff of memories. And memories are the elite treasures of travel.
Driving along the scuttled roads of urban Austin, I finally found a parking place, after 10 minutes of searching. By some twist of fate, I managed to find a place in front of a building that once sheltered one of the most wonderful Italian spots in Texas. It was long gone now, replaced by serial restaurateurs with cash and concepts. The place was called Speranza’s, run by a young couple, Michael and Hallie Speranza, and it was a Mecca for anyone trying to show offbeat Italian wines in those days. The era was the early 1980’s and in those 25 years or so, many places have come and gone, and come again, professing to hold high the banner for all things Italian.
Austin is a place that defies categorization. So I won’t. But I am not sure the place is ready for the real deal, this time again. Italy isn't a fashion, not a flash-in-a-pan kind of thing.
Wine wise, we would bring in Dolcetto’s and Nebbiolo’s, Montepulciano d’Abruzzo’s and Tocai’s and they would be welcomed into this crazy little vortex of tipicita’. For a few brief moments, you were in a little trattoria in the Langhe or of some little side road in the Chianti zone. And then it went away. The Speranza’s shuttered their wonderful gem of a restaurant. It was like a death of a friend.
Don’t get me wrong, there are some wonderful experiences that have sprung up. There is the casual and laid back Asti, which is always fun to see the convergence of things Italian in the spirit of Austin. There is Siena, which is this lifelike reproduction of an Italian castello, complete with the smells of the open hearth. And there is Vespaio, with its frenetic, Italian-with-a-nod-to-Nice fare. Good times. And there is Damian Mandola’s Trattoria Lisina in Driftwood, which gets so close you can almost smell it. But the real deal, without compromise, hasn’t been back since the Speranza’s shut the door on their little place.
I’m not talking about some Dellionaire who has a place in Tuscany and wants to impress their friends back in Austin with their manipulation of millions to appear to be Italian. I’m talking sweat, warts, octopus, Margherita pizza without Parmigiano, real, real, real. No compromises.
But for one moment, to just dream of gnocchi like Aunt Jena makes, to have an insalata di mare like one can only hope to find in Naples, or Ischia, or Mondello, or Austin? That is madness beyond anything imaginable, no?
What else? A "gentlemen’s" club or two, after all, they are on the route sheet. Disciplina, as they said in Ancient Rome. Imagine this: making a cold call in 100°F weather, going into dark and dank clubs, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes pounds you as you escape the heat of the day. Inside the dark, the wet, chilly air conditioning, the heavy bass beat and an empty pole waiting for the dancers to change their shift.
Everyone is looking for an opportunity. The Piemontese make a low alcohol sweet slightly frizzante red that sells well in these places. The client can buy it for $12 and sell it for $80. The girls can drink it all night and never lose their balance, on the job. We talk about pitching it on another visit, after all the formal introductions have been made.
Back to the main event. After driving in circles around the torn up streets of downtown Austin (everything is under construction, reminds me of Rome) I finally find a valet park ( which I hate) close to the spot where we be having the tune-up, 
• 2004 Capezzana Carmignano
• 2004 Re Manfredi Aglianico del Vulture
With the exception of the corked Il Carbonaione, all the wines showed well. Plates of charcuterie and small producer cheeses were served, this was a simple event, food wise, but the foods served were way above the high water mark. I know folks in NY, LA, SF, Italy are saying, yeah, but. Whatever, last night at 
Next month 
Speakers & Panel Members-The List So Far:
With everything in play the way it has been for the last 50 or so years, is anyone surprised that we now find ourselves in prime-time navel gazing mode regarding our future? In the early 1970’s we were not so gently warned to get our oil-addiction in check. And now, everyone is acting surprised that gas is $4 a gallon, like it’s the end of the world? Hello, that was the price of gas in Italy, in 1984.
Is it any surprise that now, not many fellows want to shell out the bucks for a pony car that will cost them $50 a day to run? The world that these cars were designed for no longer exists.
OK, so we get an email, or a meeting whereby we get this plea, more often in the form of a requisite for continued good relations. Time out.
And I come to you and tell you I have built this brush factory and have invested heavily. And those brushes I have been selling to you for $5-6, I still want to sell them to you. But I need you to also buy a bunch of brushes for your house and they cost $12-15 and they only are good for the second floor. You can’t use them in the garage and they are useless in the dining room. They are only for the study on the 2nd floor or the guest bedroom. And not the bathrooms. And I need you to buy a dozen of them.
Can you feel the force of the door as it just got slammed in my face?
What the world needs now - is it really another highfaluting Maremma wannabe that sells for $60, $80, $100?
We’re deep into July now, the skin bakes well at 99° F. I might as well tell my sister not to print this one out for our mother, as she will just think I have lost my mind. And yes, I will digress.
Before you get to thinking this post is leaning towards the visually risqué, let me explain. The images shown have been created by the artistic duo known as 
Tuscany, Tuscany, Tuscany. What on earth are they doing to you now? Earlier in the week I was sharing a bottle of a simple Chianti Classico from Melini, Il Granaio 2003, with three sommeliers. One, a Master-somm, who was in a great mood, replied something to the effect that this wine in it’s simplicity, how did she say it, something like it was so nice to just enjoy Sangiovese and Chianti like it is meant to be. I had to agree, not because I was trying to sell it to her and everyone else we had tasted that day. But it really was an epiphany to me, because here was this quiet little Chianti that had sat in the warehouse for many months, and it had blossomed into this pretty little wine. It wasn’t a stunner, but the experience was. Because, once again, you never know when the little wine god will creep up into a bottle and reveal itself, if you are quiet and fortunate and have others around you to help row the boat in the right direction. And those kinds of things are everywhere in this wine business.
Some time ago a salesman from a huge wine company called me up and asked me to please help him spread the word on their 2001 SuperTuscan. The wine was Alleanza, from Gabbiano. Usually that wine is not on the high priority list. There’s too little of it in any event. But when I took that wine home and tasted it during an evening, just by myself, again the midnight bloom arose from the bottle and beguiled me with its dance of seduction.
Over the years, another Chianti Classico, from Querciavalle and the Losi family, has been the reason for pause and reflection. This one comes with many visits and memories, something the over-inputted salesperson doesn’t have time for. Today as I was stretched upon the float in the pool, for one brief moment I was under anther sun, this time on the road near their winery going to the spot where their oak tree was struck down many moons ago. From that stunning moment, the raison d'être of the winery was forged.
Last week, another day, Gabrizia Cellai was in town to speak of her wines from Caparzo, La Doga and Borgo Scopeto. There was a moment when we were tasting Caparzo’s simple red, their Sangiovese. No Syrah, Merlot or Colorino, just straight Sangiovese. Again, here I was, at the altar, with something so simple and straightforward, just a blissfully uncomplicated come-across.
How is it a bee sting can be more significant than running into a wall? It might be because the bee pinpoints their focus on exactly one point. Running into a wall can be hard to spot, years down the road. Tonight I ran into a wall. At a friend house someone suggested I try the Silverado Reserve Merlot 1997. So I did. Just as I have tried many other wines lately from my home state. Somewhere I had a Russian River Chardonnay, and again I quizzed myself inside, wondering what it was I had missed. Oh please, California, look to the simple pleasures of wine and life. Less is more, really. Just as Italian food is characterized not by how much you can load into the dish, but rather how well you can work with three of four ingredients, isn’t time we looked to wines like that and celebrated them for their pure simplicity and the pleasure that it brings to us?
The other day of couple of older guys (older than me) came into a fine wine store where we were tasting the Chianti and they were asking for “big and bold Syrahs.” I really thought, at first, that they were liquor board guys; they had the “look.” I was disappointed when I heard them requesting the big Syrah like it was some kind of vinous Viagra.
So we have these characters looking to blow $60 on a big red lap dance and on the other end of the scale we have these jokers who come up and say something like this: “Anyone can find a great wine for a $100. It takes a real snoop to suss out the great ones for under $10. Yeah, that would have been a pretty fair way to go about it, back when the price of oil was around $14 a barrel. But now that snoop has fallen behind the reality of the times. Just like the restaurant that cuts back on the quality of the ingredients in their food, so there are measures that can be taken like that with wine. But why would someone continue on with such self deception? Younger generations don’t do that, in fact they see wines at $15-20 as a baseline. And yes, I have gotten off track.
And what is the secret, the magic ingredient? It’s leather and the lack of it in certain places. It relates to the street and the tenacity of those who have joined us in our quest to take on the final frontier. Italy has gotten a hold on this state which is larger than Italy, as large as France. This is no easy task, but we are going to bristle and mow our way through the year to prove to New York, Chicago, LA and San Francisco that there is competition for the fine wine segment of the Italian wine market. This week was just the beginning.
Imagine getting up at 6:oo AM in order to get ready for a long day. Nine wines, six clients, 120 miles of driving, in a circle, like a carousel. Young palates, master tasters, Italians, chefs, wine bar enthoos, no we’re not talking about Austin (next week, Dottore). We’re a bit east of the Barnett Shale, the phenom that is transforming the local economy and making a lot of believers out of the Texas miracle. More on that another time. Right now we have just come off of three days of intensive tasting and pounding the streets. The leather I was talking about was on the bottom of my shoes. No, that’s not some lunar landscape; that, my friends is a badge of honor. Yes, we’re still paying our dues and proud of it.
Vacation to Europe? Not yet, the action is here in the armor plated patrol vehicles. With the inside of them coming up to 110-115° F, we have our Koolatron chests panting to keep our wine and our laptops cool. Suit, tie, long sleeve, yes grasshopper, we have entered the battle zone and we will not surrender and we will conquer the hubris and the entropy. With or without our punch lists.
I’m at lunch with four other gents. Checking out one of the haut-spots. I cannot find a wine on the list for less than $100 bucks. An old Italian SB for $12 a glass that is selling down the street for $9. I start to see red. The start of my red letter day.
Later that night, I am dreaming of California; the dream is a wild ride with a young family member, Vinitaly, Dr. P and the rolling hills of the Central Coast, sometimes in the sunlight, sometimes on fire. Then, cool breezes, and a waterfall , emotion, and collapse. Powerful wines that provoke such vivid dreams, or was it the cheese? I know at 9:30 I fell asleep with the lights on, only to hear in the distance the light ring of a text message. It’ll have to wait, I’m in 
“Take me with you to Italy,” they said in an aisle as I came up off my knees from placing the bottles of Oltrepo Pavese red on the rack. “We’ll carry your luggage.” I had a master class in packing today. One pair of shoes, two pairs of pants, three shirts, no medicines ( get them there when or if you need them). One camera, no computer, travel light. Nothing to check, little to carry on, they have changed the rules. Like my film-maker friend said today, “flying sucks, unless it’s business class on international or a private jet.” Have your gal call Clooney’s gal and let’s get hooked up, pal. 
