Vito Power

Guest commentary by Beatrice Russo

Well, I finally made the deal with Dale. He’s the sommelier that in Arthur's world is the decanter. Dale is in charge of a new wine oriented restaurant and retail place that’s coming here. He wants to set this town on its side, with low restaurant wine list prices and great sommelier service. A place where our generation can say to the GenExers, “Hey old geezers, wake up and smell the Tulipano Nero.”

He says it will be his show to run. There won't be some corporate suit from up north telling him what he can and can’t do. No Vito or Boss Hogg telling him he can't buy Voerzio or Gravner.

He’s been telling IWG that he wanted to hire me, but I had other things going on. But then the heavens opened up and money poured down from above. So, just like that, I have a full-time gig.


I almost got a dog. Not one of the small ones that gets lost in a purse. He was abandoned, and had been abused pretty bad. But he was so badly beaten that the vet had to put him to sleep. Just my luck. Dogs and humans.

IWG has a “project” this week. He’s been holed up for days in front of a computer with a couple of special programs. One is a way to find wines that are selling well, for the press. The other is to see how his vendors products are selling vs. the amount of dollars they locked up with inventory. There really is no talking to him. I saw peeking over his shoulder, Lambrusco sales up 30% and operating with ¼ of the inventory on hand. A very hot Pinot Grigio up 250% in the last year. So why is he such a grouch? He should really chill, take a couple of days off.

Best wine this week? A 2005 Chateau Thivin Côte de Brouilly. The old Italian Wine Guy brought a French wine home along with leftover Peking duck he had with his buds. IWG was real secretive about this dinner. Only thing I can tell is, he has obsessed over these hidden kitchens that he used to go to in Palermo. He says there are Mayan and Cambodian hidden kitchens here, but they are closed to non-natives. He is obsessed with finding authentic cooking. I guess it’s safe to say he hasn’t found his Italian place here. Yet. Actually, he mentioned a couple, David and Rafaella. Said her gnocchi was as good as anywhere he had in Italy. So he does have his hidden Italian kitchen. But I guess Mayan or Cambodian sound more exotic.

Oh, the wine. It was pretty. Gamay. The color was light but deep. Old World. Hand picked. Earthy. Not Americanized, it had character. Tasty with the duck, a direct hit. I can has Beaujolais?

So I’m glad, I've got a job and a cool place to stay. Oh, I almost forgot about the apartment, this is too much luck. This Senior VP dude, works for Coca-Cola, friend of friend, has a house in the Park Cities, empty nester, just him and his wife. They live on Bordeaux Street and have a garage apartment. 600 square feet and a lap pool in the back yard. He’s always traveling and his wife goes with him a lot. They have an apartment in NY and a house in Colorado. If I watch their place when they are gone I can have this wicked crash pad for $500 a month. I have already started moving in, and they have wireless, so I don’t have to lose my link with my glo-bal-tri-bal-fam-ily. Totally hot. Later.

Importer Spotlight ~ Giulio Galli

Giulio Galli and Guido Folonari, planning for the future.

This one is easy. Recently, I worked with Giulio Galli, who has a little jewel of an Italian portfolio. What makes it even more rewarding, is that Giulio has street smarts, knows where to look, is hungry and knows how to ask for the order. Could he teach a class for the other importers and their representatives?


A young man in his late 30’s, Italian by birth, and recently, American by marriage. Well educated in the financial world, Giulio could make a ton of money doing something else. But the young man learned early about something important in life – being able to sail his own ship.


The portfolio is made up of other young winemakers, Giudo Folonari, Francesca Moretti and Stefano Baroncini to name three. And they talk regularly and happily. Good communications with his Italian partners from his American base, keeping them focused on this market and the particularities of the American market needs.


Many years ago I saw my friend Eugenio Spinozzi start his company Tricana, and struggle with his Italian-ness. Most people loved Eugenio, and he gave a lot back. But my friend wasn’t the greatest businessman, and over time his idea of how to grow the business didn’t seem to make it to the levels of folks like Leonardo Lo Cascio and Tony Terlato. Not that everyone has to make it in that scale. But after 25 years one should have a strong base. Bon anima, amico.

But Giulio strikes me as a young man who, along with his winery partners, are part of the healthy future of the Italian wine business. The FUTURE.



Small portfolio, well defined. One winery, Baroncini, which pulls the wagon. Boutique gems like Petra, L’Illuminata and Contadi Castaldi. It doesn’t hurt that these properties have resort escapes attached to them, with chefs like Alain Ducasse and Gualtiero Marchesi as anchor attractions to the upper-scale getaways. This is the new Italian elegance combined with a rural respect for mother earth. It makes one want to sell more of these wines, just to be able to spend a few days in a place where one might re-assemble their sanity.

Great architecture and great chefs. Wines aren’t too shabby either. Youth and smarts. I think this will be fun to watch, and be a part of. I’m excited. Welcome on in, Giulio & Co.




Giulio's Italian wine portfolio includes Baroncini, L'Illuminata, Davide Feresin, Campo Bargello, Franco Terpin, Carron, Germano Ettore, Corbera and Vinae Italiae.

L'Atelier du Dale

Wine Decanter with Developer, from MoMa store.

Boldly Going Through Jell-O in a Tuxedo

I had to laugh. I was back in El Paso, Texas, coming down the stairs of the hotel. On the floor was a fortune. I stopped to take a picture of it, thinking it might have some meaning down the road.

The road, the trail, the dog days of summer and the search for more converts. Silence finally blankets my space. No ranting, no heated passion, just peace. Maybe a chance to rest before the next day appears with the sun.

Yes it is successful, but it is a slog through a pool of Jell-O shots.

The little seaside town in Puglia caught on fire in late July. The cool aquamarine water couldn’t save everyone. There was tragedy, even in Paradise.


In El Paso, a man at a wine dinner calls me over to his table. “Where are you from? You don’t sound like an Italian.” I told him where I was from. “That’s not where Italians live.” This guy was getting on my nerves. “I’m from a place that sounds like Firenze, but its down near Abruzzo, that wine you were just talking about. I’m from Forenza.” Oh really. Here’s a man telling me I’m not an Italian (I’m not, I am a grandchild of Italian immigrants) and then he doesn’t even know where his people are from. Forenza, between Potenza and Rionero in Vulture. That would be Basilicata, chum. That’s the kind of nonsense I hear daily, when it comes to Italian wine. E la nave va.

Some time at home with friends and family. A nice Slow Food pot luck dinner, with all kinds of interesting wines from Germany, Italy, France and California. Nothing so bold or dashing, but relaxing and life-affirming. A quiet slice of life.

The rag-tag group of old guys who I taste wine with from time to time. Last week we took our time through a flight of Meritage wines from California. Pleasant, some better than others, but nothing bad. Interesting to note, the Opus One we had, an 1988, was 12.5% alcohol. The newer wines from this century were 14.5% and up.


I have taken to wearing a tuxedo with shorts at wine tastings. I don’t know why. Perhaps the influence of the Southern beaches, where life is casual.


Some of you might be disappointed in the direction of this web site and these postings. Perhaps the schedule of three serious postings a week has finally taken its toll. Maybe I have run out of things that are interesting to write about. I know the young guests have put some life back into this old blog. The “intern”, Beatrice, has a voice and when there is a contribution from that camp, it seems to get lots of hits. And Arthur and his odd couple, now known as Ziff & Dale, I hate to tell you, but it gets even more traffic. So the blog is evolving and changing. And I’m just staring at the sky, waiting for my next plane to land, so I can catch it to another place to spread the gospel of Italian wine according to me. It's like going to Disneyland everyday.


A dashing and bold adventure, indeed.

Ziff & Dale ~ ' Taint Necessarily So

Click on cartoon to enlarge

Ziff’s “true story", as told after hours, over a partial bottle of Monfortino.

One night this week a table ordered a bottle of Opus 1 and a bottle of white Zinfandel. We really only have the white Zin around for people who feel pressure to not order ice tea, and want to be seen drinking wine, like all the rest of the ones in their party.

Well this old cat, with a young hottie dangling from his wallet, was in the place, sucking up the Opus with his rich and famous entourage. The hottie was about 6’1” and all put together like she just rolled off the Mattel assembly line. Anyway, she gets "Money" to order her up a bottle of the white Zin. Next thing you know she’s asking for some crushed ice. Surprised she didn’t want a straw, or one of those little pink umbrellas.

The table was dripping with trust fund babies. Money was being dropped on another bottle of Pahlmeyer, another bottle of Dunn. This was going to be a 5 grand tab, easily.

And then it got away from me. While I was in the back preparing a decanter for another bottle a Big Red for Old, Rich Stud & Co., someone in the party decided it would be fun to make sangria with one of the big reds and the white Zin. After all there was ice and it was their money, right?

There they were, all laughing about how fantastic an idea it was, like going to Ibiza without having to fire up the G-500.

Fortunately for them, the decanter they poured the white Zin into was an older bottle of Napa Cab from a winery that had problems with TCA taint. It was a minor problem for this bottle. But at $700 a bottle, about 30 minutes worth of jet fuel cost for the corporate jet these folks weren’t hopping to Ibiza, big deal.

Money, it’ll make ya do stupid things, especially here in Glitter Gulch.

Bar-Bar-S-Q

Guest commentary by Beatrice Russo

I ran some of the mail I was holding over to the IWG. He told me he was going to Fort Worth and if I had time, or was in the area, to meet him and Giulio over at a dark, little Italian place. My project hit a snag, so I thought I’d catch up with them around lunch time.

Giulio is a great guy and a couple of the gals at the table were all ears (and eyes). Not too bad. When I got there they all looked at me as if I had just popped out of a spaceship.

I rang it up to the dark; it’s probably hard for some of the old geezers to see in the restaurant. Gives chef some options for his plates.

Speaking of popping, they opened a Franciacorta Rosé, which was very dee-lish. A couple of simple whites, an Orvieto and a Vernaccia, followed up by a Morellino and a very cool wine from Petra, called Zingari, from what sounds like a soul–sister winemaker in Tuscany, Francesca Moretti.

The whole time, the chef was preparing food for the table and the other diners. He came out once and made the rounds, and then we didn’t see much more of him. IWG and Giulio drove over to see him and taste through Giulio’s portfolio. (note to Andrea- dude, he put it together, looks like something you might want to do with your portfolio)Even in Fort Worth, the 1st of August, for an Italian, must be a day for a little sleepwalking. Too bad for him, it was a nice 'splay of wines. Snooze, ya lose.

Anyway, the chef, who IWG has known for about as long as I have been alive, sat down at another table and didn’t taste with us. Now there were some good looking people at our table so he missed out on natural beauty and a lot of good wine. We did have an interesting discussion about finding mates. IWG didn’t open the Barbaresco and the Super Tuscans; he told me later that he figured the restaurant owner wasn’t into being hospitable. Yeah. I’d probably use another word, but not on IWG’s site. His momma reads this sometimes.

So, that’s all. Everyone has been posting on this blog this week and I felt I had to put my 2 cents worth in. There’s gotta be a better way to show great wines in the marketplace.

P.S. Saturday IWG is doing a Bar-Bar-S-Q tasting down in the old part of town. Barbera, Barolo, Barbaresco and Bar-B-Q. Sounds kinda katchy. Jimmy’s 12-3, Saturday, in Dallas. He wants me to shave my legs for it. Say what?

August & Italy = Vacanze

Photo by Owen Kanzler

Marinated olives, roasted peppers, finocchiona, cold pasta salad, fagiolini e tonno in insalata and ricotta cookies. Packed and ready to head out for the month. The warehouses are closed, the winery folks are on a skeleton crew, the cars are gassed up. Italy is going on vacation.

From 10:00 o’clock Tuesday morning until 10:00 o’clock PM one of our Italian wine importers and I ran around North Texas, tasting wines to restaurants. Appointments one hour apart and 14 different wines from Franciacorta to Vernaccia, Super Tuscans to Barbaresco. And we'll do it again, Today. It was 95°F on Tuesday. With intermittent showers, known in these parts as turd-floaters.

So while Italy dozes off in the hammock of their choice, we will be readying their largest market (the US) for the holidays. Some of them will come in September or October and they will be tanned and full of harvest stories. We welcome their participation in making 2007 the best year yet for Italian wines in America. It will not be by accident that this is happening. Lots of worker bees bringing back pollen from the fields to feed the queen.

So enjoy, Italy and Italians. We will think of you between the soaked shirts and label stained bottles, as the many ambassadors are out in Davenport, Iowa and Mobile Alabama, Tucson, Arizona and Frisco, Texas, making this thing work so the quality of life in Italy will improve. And the wines too.

Wednesday, have a 9:30 AM first appointment, so this will be an uncharacteristically short posting (for me). We have wine to sell and friends to make, in places like Fort Worth and Southlake, Texas.

Photo by Erwin E. Smith

Allvin Arrives from Australia

Click on cartoon to enlarge

Just when you thought your job was safe, Allvin arrives. -AK

Shangri-la-bria

The road though the Cilento National Park hooked me. I want to linger. Forests, greenery, cool, peaceful. It is the kind of experience one can only hope to have in Italy, or anywhere. But the coast is calling, as is Calabria. We will have to touch the sand when we get there. The trail goes straight through the Sila.

Calabria is a strange place. I do not advise American tourists to go there on their first trip. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Calabria. But you cannot pack your wash-and-wear assumptions about the way the world is from an American-based set of ideas.

Calabria is its own reality, and if you don’t mind what happens, then you can become immersed in a world of color and spice, folklore and music. The rest of Italy sometimes makes fun of Calabria, for her poverty and her backward ways. The Calabrese say, that impression, while not correct, serves well, to keep away some of the riff-raff.

The beaches, the water, the sun, the breeze. Elemental ways. If you don’t mind. Paradise for those who can turn the tempting serpent of their inner chatter box off long enough to take in the Now.

After a long and winding drive through the Sila, Cosimo, our host, was waiting for us at his trattoria. A short man with one eyebrow and piercing, beautiful eyes. Like a sunflower stalk, Cosimo stands on this earth anchored, confident. A very happy soul.

Immediately he starts rapid-fire talking to me in Italian, and for some reason, I understand almost every thing he says. Maybe it’s the accent, like my Nonna Lucrezia’s. He excuses himself to talk to his fishermen out in the sea.

Italy has a strange cellular reception configuration. I should ask David about this, he knows more about that than I do. I imagine, for the trade involved, the brokers and restaurant owners on the shore need to be linked up with the fishermen, in order to gauge their commerce in fresh seafood.

A plate of gamberi came out from the kitchen and Cosimo opened a bottle of a white Mantonico.
Crisp, cool, fresh, I knew I had to pace myself. This was just one of probably many courses. Antonio from the winery would be here in 20 minutes, he wanted us to taste his new wines in the ambience of Calabria. It had been a few months since we tasted the wines at Vinitaly, so I was anxious to taste them again and in such a wonderful place.

After a meal that regenerated our road-weary souls, we sat along the shore to the song of the waves lapping by our feet. Peace. We had gone from forest to coast in a few hours. The only hot thing we suffered through was the grappa al peperoncino. This is Shangri-la, sans serpente.

What do I love about Calabria? Well my trips there from the past have great memories.

The figs, the eggplant, the peppers. The farm made cheeses, the exotic honey, the green hills, the innocent rustic character of the region. Even though the trattoria is along a strip of coast, the heart of the place is in the hills, among the wild things. That’s what makes Calabria so alluring.

Friday Funnies ~ Ziff & Dale

IWG sent a text. He is out of range for broadband, can't post latest installment on his southern swing. Apologies. Something about mountains interrupting his connections. And a plate of pasta with a vodka and peperoncino sauce waiting for him at the table. And, pass the Ciro, whatever that means. He'll post his Calabrian piece when he can. In the meantime he asked me to drop in one of my latest cartoons. And, no sweet Bea, it isn't about you.

Thought for the weekend? J. Krishnamurti says his secret of life is "Don't mind what happens." Later. -AK

The Way You Haunt My Dreams

200th post

It’s 5AM and I’m staring at cameras on a shelf, wondering which one to choose, to photograph a shadow. A €2.00 Euro coin, and pottery shards from over 2,000 years ago, crowds the desk, making little room for the cup café latte that will help me through the fog. Winding roads through a park, the scent of the sea and some eerily familiar feeling is slowly receding as the sun pulls its way towards the new day.

“The Salento Peninsula”, she whispers, from her secret grave. Here where the cult of the goddess reigns, where the Mas of the Languedoc becomes between the Masserie of the Salento. Where silent temples rest among fields of wheat and vines. Here is where one can find a sense of Italia Antica, a place where one can reclaim some of that which has been lost by time. Where one might look into an ancient mirror and come face to face with Her.

How easily we are satisfied. All they have to do is find an abandoned building, get some government funding, fix it up a little, a couch here, a television there, maybe an internet connection. Make sure the beach has sand and umbrellas, stock the kitchen with fresh vegetables and seafood, and pasta, always the pasta. And voila, the buen retiro for the traveler or vacation bound is ready.

We were sampling some Falanghina and a few other varieties that will never make it to America, except perhaps New York. How can I have that sort of thought in a place like this?

In a courtyard, in the shade, Arturo and I are talking. Arturo is a man who once lived in New York; he watches the city from the internet now. “How is it someone like Joe Bastianich goes on national TV,” he asks me. “to talk about water?” I tell him we are now a country of city folk obsessed with where our water comes from. “You should worry more about where your oil comes from or those gigantic cars you put them in!” I cannot disagree. But I do wonder if the folks in New York have gotten so distracted that they no longer concern themselves with which wine. “Maybe Joe thinks he can turn water into wine,” Arturo comments. Or maybe water into gold. Wine into gold, wheat into gold, tomatoes, pasta, fish, the whole experience will turn into some golden god that is the fashionable one to worship today. New York, you can have your melted down idol of gold and water. Here, in The Deep South, you'll never touch our goddess.

I get an email from a friend in Manhattan, she tells me that I am sounding a little crazy. “There are many many crazy things,” Sinatra sings, “May I list a few.”

I could stay here for more than these moments will allow. But the road calls, Calabria, Sicily, Tunisia, Malta.

But under the shade of the tree, napping a little, I hear Her, calling from inside the earth. No, they can’t take that away from me.

The Endless Italian Summer

Fragments of a dream. All the Italians lying by a body of water, clutching onto a little piece of coastline, in the summertime. Their thoughts floating out into space, like smoke rings from Mt. Etna.

In southern Italy, with a room by the beach, and a fan. Looking from the window at this yearly ritual of recharge and rest. Only a distant memory now, while the Italians listen to the waves lap the shoreline, talk about what they will have for dinner, think about their fantasy lovers. Another endless Italian summer.

For the next six weeks or so, the Italians have put all manner of tasks on hold. Along the way, the grapes are calling, this time it's an early harvest from prolonged early heat and sun. Grape pickers, some who are scheduled to work a rice or a peach harvest, might be hard to obtain for the delicate work of bringing in the grapes. That isn’t part of the dream. Not in the plans for the Italian’s summer. Winemakers will have already planned to stay home, or at least delegate to their vineyard managers: find some bodies and keep the cell phones on in the fields.


As the car leaves Potenza we have to decide if we head towards Salerno in Campania, or make the longer trek south into Calabria. There are several winemaker friends to visit in Campania and the thinking is to get there before they disappear for a few weeks. In Calabria, they are already gearing up for the grapes, coming on the heels of their other crops. They will vacation in October, when it is still warm.

Funny how a trip to Italy, while one is drawn to the water, always leads back to the interior. So while the Italian is dreaming of their time on the beach, others drill deep into the heart of other matters.

On the phone with a winemaker in Trentino, who is not happy. He hasn’t raised his prices in three years and this time he want to go up 20%. Combine that with a weak dollar and sluggish consumer pull (read: buying cheaper wine), and he is in for a very rude awakening. I wish him luck and say good-bye, probably forever. How do you tell someone, making a Sauvignon Blanc in northern Italy, that the New Zealanders have just handed you your head on a plate? Folks might be buying Classic 7 apartments in NY for $2.5 million, but they aren’t springing for $30 Italian Sauvignon Blanc for housewarming gifts. Next.

Gravina, Falanghina, Greco, Mantonico, Grillo, Inzolia. We will make it up in The South.


A pack of wild dogs cross the Super Strada, stirring the dreamer. The car comes to a halt. They stare at us, we stare back. What? Four, maybe five seconds of that and it’s time to pull the car over and take a break. As that happens, the animals continue on their path. Wild rabbits have been seen in great numbers causing the dogs to move into the area, to feed on the bounty. A few small children have been reported missing, and occasionally, one comes across one of the dogs, shot, dead, hanging from a fence. A talisman for the pack to change direction. A middle aged man was found nearly dead, slumped in a field, with a bullhorn and an empty canteen of water. It was said he had gone looking for his young son and now the wife has nearly two members of her family gone. Barely two miles away other families play on the beach and plan their meals. The dream, intersecting with the unthinkable.

All the while the waxing moon heads towards fullness. And Mt Etna waits patiently, stirring slightly in her slumber, sending signs that have yet to be understood.

The Palace at 4 AM

I was prowling about the house. It was still dark; the sun wouldn’t be up for a few hours yet. Unable to sleep, associating it with something as simple as a case of jet lag or medication that hasn’t been finely adjusted yet. Or an early harvest. Worrying about a vision of the demise of something big looming on the horizon, coming this way.

Thankfully, it was cool at that time of the day. And quiet. No one calling to get donations for a policeman’s fraternal order in Billings, Montana. Or offers to get a Kia SUV with no money down, no payments till January. Little or no interest.

The map was laid out on the table. Where were we going? Friends in Conversano have been asking, “When are you coming?” The sad little region, Basilicata, however, was whispering in my ear, “We haven’t seen you since the year of the comet.”


Basilicata is a ragtag region of cave dwellings, fields of wheat and bald mountains peeled back from the harsh winters. Like the rags of Armani before Miami, one would almost rather have the Douro as a replacement region for this sad little isola of a region.

From Puglia, crawling along the coast on SS7 and over to Taranto, the pilgrimage to one of the main towns, Matera, takes one though a Pittsburghian landscape of refineries and discarded automobiles. Like the set of Giant in West Texas: abandoned, rusting, desolate. A glimmer of hope as one passes through Massafra, where a revival of sorts took place. It was a simple plate of pasta with clams, but one that won’t be forgotten anytime soon.

Still in Puglia, as we pass though Castellaneta, an outcropping of stone with the all too human brick and mortar. Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Piero Filiberto Guglielmi was born here the same year as my grandfather, and left for California about the same time.

Right after the Masseria Pantano, one slips into Basilicata. From there it’s a climb up to Matera. It’s here where the SS7 tires, but ultimately finds its way to Potenza, a Death Valley mule-stop turned into a dull hope for the humanity who have parked their lives in that place.


First, Matera.

This is a durable village, blessed by sun and a solid foundation. In a land of earthquakes and invasions, Matera offered a chance to dig in and establish some sense of civilization. Plenty has been written on the place, and I won’t dare to press the stone with any more impressions. Just go there. It is a place with a sense of itself and a vibration that is unique. Is it Italy? Of course, it’s all Italy. And Matera, like anywhere in this country, isn’t some candy-coated tourist destination for scared American tourists.

The bread, to die for. Wine? Yes, but in its barest essential form. Red. Hearty. Necessary.

I started this blog almost two years ago with an image from Basilicata, looking through a vineyard of Aglianico towards Monte Vulture. In this time, now, we stare, eyeless at a blazing ancient stone village, walking the deserted paths, wondering for the lives of those who smoothed the rough rocks down to this silk road of smoothness.

This is not a place to spend a lifetime. But a few hours, or days, what can it hurt? Anything made with wheat, in this town, will be great. Cheese from the uplands. Wine from the vinelands. The sea is far, but it’s not like Kansas. There is a hope to drive a few hours and see the endless blue. And we will. We must head towards Potenza, to taste wine. And press on, to Campania, to Calabria, on the wine trail in Italy.




Photography by Allegro Paolo