The Master Game

The wine business is a funny game. As a career, it has its rewards. Dining in fine restaurants, travel, meeting interesting people from all walks of life. And daily challenges, like deadlines, pressure to get to the top and to stay there. Some of the young up-and-comers have decided they want to take the express elevator to the summit.

How‘s that? It’s called the Master Game. Cram, study, taste. Taste, study, cram. Network. And pray. And pass. There you go, you’re a master.

Everybody wants to go to heaven; everybody wants to be recognized for something. So, in the wine business, the fast-track, rise to the top is seen as a way to get fame, a better paycheck and a degree of autonomy, a degree of separation from the masses. The masters that have risen to the top, be they master sommeliers or masters of wine (and yes, there are those enlightened ones who have achieved both) have worked hard, very hard, to get there. So, this is in no way aimed to mock or belittle their achievement.

Two recent observations in my local region have punctuated just how important those on the outside think these achievements are. A local sommelier conference lists some of their recent presentations. They then list some of the folks who were presenters. All of the presenters were master sommeliers or masters of wine, with one exception.

Another local wine gala hawks its upcoming awards ceremony, the best steak chef, the best martini maker, the best wine guru. Oops, another master, in fact a double-master. That'll fill the seats. And the pattern goes on and on.

It’s like these events are using these masters to hype their events, that without a master why would anyone care to attend? I mean, if Neal Rosenthal or Kermit Lynch showed up, wouldn’t someone care to hear about their experiences on the wine trail? Surely they would. But they are kind of famous. Yes, fame is important. Look at the superstar chef game that’s playing itself out to a fizzle or a black hole. OK, so how about if we dig deeper, let’s say in the hills of Piemonte, and bring out of the caves Luciano Degiacomi? Or how about traipsing to the island of Salina, near Sicily, and pulling someone like a Carlo Hauner out of his infinite ecstasy to wax on about the birds and the bees and the honeyed wines of his island?

Who are these people?

Well, these people are the stuff of legends. With these people, I would choose to sit at a simple table in an unadorned room, eating fresh and uncomplicated foods and drinking wholesome and delicious wines, listening to them talk about the history, the future, the life of the vine.

And probably many of the modern-day young masters would appreciate that too.


But what is the message that’s being sent by these event planners and seminar promoters? To me it sounds a lot like, “Come to our show, see our masters. They walk on water, they swallow fire, and they will set your free. They are famous, and if you hang around with them long enough, you will feel good about yourself, because you are in their circle, and this will make you feel more important. And if you can climb their mountain, get to the top, you too can have all this: fame, fortune, autonomy, a slim waistline and never-graying hair.” Or maybe, just hair, period.


I have dear friends who are masters, but their lives are not perfect, folks. Be not tempted by the message that if you only do this, only get these letters after your name, your life will be better, everything is going to be OK.

That’s an illusion; it will make your head spin, until all you are is dizzy and disenchanted.


Did you hear the story about the master of wine who took the stairs down into his cellar for a bottle of wine? He tripped, fell and broke his neck.

He was found, days later, alone and passed, in his cellar, with his bottles and his broken neck. Alone.

No guarantees.


Young aspirants, listen to the ancient ones. Work your craft, study your vintage charts, find your bliss. But don’t look outside of yourself, for the ultimate affirmation of your being. A couple of letters after your name won’t guarantee you friends or family or happiness. Or freedom from suffering.

Under the Big Tent

I have been getting e-mails daily, from hopeful Italian wineries, looking for distribution in the US. Along with that, our current group of wineries is bringing up new items for us to look at. The market for new is still conservative, but all doors must be opened, all thoughts entertained. That’s the way life is under the big tent, the uber-distributor that must serve many. And as there are many grapes in Italy, there are as many kinds of people in our eno-circus.

Sometimes it feels like being a juggling ringleader, with all the creatures from the circus clamoring for their time under the lights in the main ring. We have the elephants, who put of lot of folks in the seats with their drawing power. They know what they are and how much weight they carry. Often they are kind, knowing their footsteps can crush. They know how to balance, though they sometimes run amuck. But they are entertaining and loved by the masses.
The clowns can be a challenge to organize and co-ordinate. There are the happy clowns, who accidentally make it big and don’t know why. But they are content to run around the ring and satisfy the needs of their fans. There are princess clowns who must be attended and catered to. They usually have special needs. It might be pathological or they might just really be princesses from an era that has long since left the harbor. Usually the happy clowns help them to forget, holding up an ageless mirror, proclaiming their immeasurable youthfulness and splendor.
Then there are the acrobats, folks willing to stand on their heads to do whatever it takes. These folks fall and hurt themselves, but they are so driven, and their energy is so contagious, that one cannot help but wonder how they go about it day after day. They often have new ideas and products, and there is innovation in their duffle bag. They are always practicing.

Like the circus, the wine business is seasonal. Many of the winemakers and marketing representatives are now coming back into the markets and making the circuits. Dallas, Austin, San Antonio and Houston. Sometimes they book out to Corpus Christi or El Paso, Lubbock or Harlingen. You really have to not mind living out of a suitcase. And once the season is over, it starts all over again. It’s not like you find a cure for polio and move on to finding a cure for measles. You just keep going around and around, year after year, making the kids laugh and finding a way to get the adults to buy the front-row tickets for the whole family.
Then there are the big cats and their tamers. They are big draws for the show, under the big tent. The represent danger, uncertainty. The lions, with their hostility and their rage. The lionesses, their uncertainty and erratic traits, one moment docile, the next moment lunging for the throat. They are out of their cage but they are still captive. Their wildness gnaws at them. Those few moments that they perform serve only to exacerbate their longing to be home in their kingdom, at peace in the grass, napping and taking in the breeze and the sun.
Once in a while, a new act auditions, and we find room for them in one of the rings. One never knows if they might be a star someday. There’s a bit of instinct and a bit more of the risk factor. And of course the clowns must like them, or no one can stay in the ring for long. There’s always that one serious clown, maybe in white face, maybe with a banjo or a performing dog, but there’s a solemnity in his presence. This is the conscience of the ringleader, the outside perspective that allows him to keep the show moving. He might have a sheep dog, herding and moving the show along. Or a terrier, hunting and rooting out the undesirables in the ring. But that serious clown has a purpose besides entertaining or comedy.
“The serious clown is the soul of the circus,” a friend once said.
It’s all intended to make the acts under the lights in the ring perform to the best of their ability, to answer their calling. Italians have loved the circus, from the earliest days of the Roman Empire. Performing, training, stretching their wings in the air and bringing joy to people, this is an ancient calling and a vital part of the psyche of the Italian.


It’s not called the greatest show on earth for nothing.

2 Meals and the Experience of a Lifetime

There are great meals that make good wines better, and there are great wines that make good meals better.

Last week I had both of those experiences back to back. It was a revelation.

Here in Dallas, (which Molly Ivins described as the kind of town “that would have rooted for Goliath to beat David”), Chef Salvatore Gisellu of Daddy Jack’s Wood Grill, had planned a meal, made by his mother who had come from Sardegna. For his mother, Maria Testone, this would be her first and possibly only visit to America from the island. Sardegna is another country from Italy. Another race of people founded the place, and though they have some of the foods and language from the Italian culture, their island is really another story. Maria Testone lost her husband decades ago. She still wears black, the costume of the widow, of Italy and the South. You see it less these days, but the tradition is still alive. Not cutting one's hair, maintaining a silent vigil over the lost love - a gravitas and a dignity that one doesn’t see too often, here in the urban setting.

We paired up Sardegnan wines from Argiolas, Santa Maria la Palma and Soletta with her food. Six stages, from Stuzzichini to Dolce.

It is rare to taste food in a public setting made with so much love. But all one had to do is take a look at this woman from another world, and another time, to see that the evening would be extraordinary. The experiences of her life would be, for all of us, an experience of a lifetime.

The Burrida, swordfish salad, and the Macarrones de punzu with bottarga, were foods that she had spent all week preparing. Like her son ‘Tore said, “All this was made by hand, her hand, and her love.” These foods made the good wines even better. Especially notable was the Argiolas Costera Canonnau 2004. I'd had that very wine at lunch with another client, and it was amazing how her food changed that wine, made the wine shine. Tachis in retirement, it's a wonderful thing.

The next night, I had arranged a tasting of some very good wines for a dinner in a private home. Several people had bid on and won me for a night for a very good charity, Room to Read. This is a charity that has been in my heart. My friends and family have donated thousands of dollars in memory of my wife, Liz, who passed away, now 6 years ago.

There were 7 couples, all young professionals: lawyers and doctors and financial consultants. The best and the brightest, wonderful folks. They catered the food from Maggiano’s. 180 degrees from Maria Testone’s handmade macarrones. Lately the folks from Maggiano’s have been reaching out to the Italian community here, to ask how to make their dining experience more authentic. While that might be a giant undertaking in America, to change the local eating habits and, moreover, their expectations, perhaps some day a little change will be made. A rising tide lifts all boats.

I brought wines from Piemonte and was setting up to compare two wines with each course. First we had a Prosecco from Montesel. For the white course, we compared the Arneis “Blange” from Ceretto with the Gavi from Figini. The next course, we compared a Dolcetto d’Alba from Pio Cesare with a Barbera d’Alba from Bruno Giacosa. With the main course, we had a Barolo Ravera from Elvio Cogno with a Barbaresco from Produttori del Barbaresco. And finally for the dessert, we had a Moscato d’Asti from Ceretto with a Brachetto d’Acqui from Marenco.


Looking at the food that was delivered, I thought, how is this going to work? I was really worried about having too much food. The night before, even though we had 6 courses, they were small portions (family style, so we could portion it out ourselves). This night, too, we could size our own portions, so that wasn’t a problem. And while the food didn't rise to the level of the night before, the wines helped to elevate the food.

So the night before, the food elevated the wines, and the next night the wines returned the favor. Food and wine, working together, to make the world a better place.

All week I have been thinking of the quiet woman from Sardegna. She struck me more as a Mother Teresa in her solemn dignity. What we witnessed was a person from a place that she had rarely left, if ever, bringing her goodness and sharing it with us. She is what Slow Food talks about in their manifesto; she is what all those jet-setting chefs rush all around looking for. But they can never be quite like her. Feet firmly planted on the ground, eyes set forward, looking straight into ours. Selling nothing. Goodness and grace.

And just like that, she is back in Dorgali in Nuoro province, the realm of Salvatore Satta and Grazia Deledda. Another world, another time, and another culture we were so fortunate to touch for a brief moment, On the Wine Trail.




The Sardegnan dinner~ click here to enlarge menu

Our Fondest Dream

Benvenuto Brunello, Once Again

The road from Siena to Montalcino was pleasant enough. It was early on a Saturday morning and my colleague and I had an appointment at Castello Banfi.

Banfi, the giant. Banfi, the interloper. Banfi, the preserver. What started out as a giant experiment to reclaim some land and lost glories has led to a revolution in Tuscany. And Italy.

Montalcino ~ Early 1980's

My first trip to Montalcino in the early 1980’s was a sobering experience. Montalcino wasn’t just a sleepy little hillside town back then. It was in a coma. It was depressing and dank, and it seemed that the life and energy of the place was hiding. I thought I had landed in some poor southern Italian hill town, not Tuscany. In fact, Montalcino was one of the poorest hill towns in all of Italy.

Now it is one of the wealthiest hill towns in all of Italy. It's alive and well.

What happened? The Mariani’s, that’s who. For starters.

Wine geeks and skeptics can stop here and surf on. That’s what I would have done in years past. Just as when I had been by the place a few times over the years, but was always scurrying from one tiny producer to another, and never quite making it inside.

At one of those small estates with a farmer friend, as he looked down over the valley which once had been unclaimed. Now it was row after row of tended vines, different clones, field research that was benefiting the whole community. “What are they doing down there, what kind of wine is that they are making?” he asked me.

His family had lived in this spot for generations, subsisting off the land by farming, hunting and training dogs for other hunters. Only recently, in the last 15 years had they seen their fortunes change. Their lives were getting better. Yes, they were still simple peasant folk, but honest and innocent. And fortunate that these “Americano’s” stepped in when they did.

When we arrived at the tasting room of the winery, our tour guide had been unable to make our appointment. A wedding in Florence called, but someone else would be our hosts. Wandering around the Napa-like tasting room, with self-guided displays and history of the project, it seemed so unusual in this place. This seemed more like what I had seen in California with one difference. The place was filling up with Italians and they were loving it.

The genius of this place isn’t that it looks like California, for the reality is, many places in California make their places look like this. The brilliance was in the dogged determination and vision by the Mariani family and all their team to pursue the marketing of Italian wine to America in this scale. And to be rewarded by the Italians with their admiration and yes, envy. The Mariani family is the template, and great hope, by those of us who toil daily in the pursuit of getting more Americans to embrace Italian wine and culture. They also are an inspiration to those of us who have battled with the Italian producer to try and get them to understand the American market, and to market to the Americans in a way that will be successful. In this way, Banfi and the Mariani family have shown Italy a better way, not the only way, but an extremely successful way to make it in America.

Our hosts showed up in a few minutes and to our surprise, it was John and Pam Mariani themselves. They live on the property about half the time, and they took the two of us, old sales dogs that we are, and showed us what we have been putting on wine lists and in wine shops all these years. My colleague (pictured above, with the Mariani's) has an even longer relationship “in the field” with these wines, and he is very respected for his hard work. John and Pam were wonderful hosts and a pleasure to be around, to hear the stories, to “get” a real sense of their vision and their plan, their fondest dream. Grazie, John and Pam, grazie mille.

After a complete tour, winery, vineyards, barrel room, even the balsameria, we headed to their trattoria, La Taverna, to taste the wines with food. Now I know not everyone has this kind of opportunity to taste the wines of an estate with the owners on a Saturday afternoon in their very own wonderful trattoria. But I have put some time in this field the past 30 years, so I'm not going to feel bad about it. And you can go to the winery and make a reservation in the Taverna for lunch or the Ristorante for dinner and have the wines from the Banfi estate. So, you can do it too.

The pleasure in all this is that wine and food and friendship and work and love all do weave together sometimes, on the wine trail in Italy, and this was one of those magical moments. It pretty much took me by surprise, and a good one at that. Some preconceptions and assumptions I’d had were carved away that day. I have a whole new respect and appreciation, not only for what the Mariani’s have done for Tuscany, but for how they paved the way, for folks like myself, to preach the gospel of Italian wine. They blazed the trails; we’re keeping the light burning.

John Mariani said it best, "We're leaving life a bit richer than when we entered into it, and we're giving more than what we're taking."

Slide Show

The Wine Lover

Wine? My first love? What one wants to say is really impossible to tell. It was a soft and easy love, it was forgiving and unforgettable. It was lightning in the first few moments. It was sweet and sassy and I loved it. And then it was gone, the cellar was empty, the bottles had all been drunk. There was no more wine in the barrel.

The wine in the barrel was about 11.9% and very mellow. Red, but not too strong, not too heavy, just the perfect fit. For 14 years we enjoyed each others admiration and love. How can a wine love? Have you never had a wine that you loved so much that you felt it might not be just a one way thing? They say wine is a living thing, yes?

To me, this wine was alive and was very much a woman.
She was French with English beginnings. People thought her to be Italian, so did I. She was unique in all my life of tasting and experiencing the different vintages and cuvees. But she was not a blockbuster, not bombastic or capable of great hedonistic pleasure. She was very refined but much understated, went with every occasion, loved by all who sat at the table and supped with her.

Never written up by the great wine critics, seldom at the table of a wine master, she wasn’t important in that way. But those masters who knew her knew of an enduring and extraordinary character with great balance and length. All in harmony with the stars and the soil.
After 14 years of enjoying vintage after vintage, the barrels finally were emptied. She had no more wine to give, she was gone. That year the harvest all over Italy was one of the greatest, but her wine wasn’t made that year. So I went to search for the hidden vineyard of the wine lover. I searched in every place from the southernmost islands to the alpine meadows. In Puglia, Calabria, Tuscany, Piedmont. In the hills of Umbria there was a sign of rejuvenation, but the messenger by the river sadly confirmed nowhere was I to find it like it had been.
Then, in a deep sleep, in a dream, an image appeared to me. It wasn’t where I was looking for. I had taken on every vintage from every appellation, looking in every little village, every hillside vine, every cloister, every abbey. I was looking to replicate the experience and it wasn’t possible. I was looking too hard when all along she was sitting there, waiting for me to open my heart back to her and to all that I had professed this love for.
There wouldn’t be lightning bolts this time. This wouldn’t be as easy; it might not be so mellow or balanced. That was once upon a time.

She spoke to me in the glass, as I took in her perfume and looked into her ruby slipper eyes. "I was made for love and for lovers and if you must love without me, you must love. If I am not here, it’s only that you think that. I have been here for thousands of years and will be here for many thousands more after you are gone. I will wait for you on a farther shore. Until then, you are the bearer of the spirit of the wine lover and it is a favor I must ask of you until we meet again."

Bar-B-Q Caesar & Pizza Massage

“You’ve got the best job in the world,” a friend wrote to me the other day. This year has started off pretty well, I’ll say that. I don’t remember a time when I have tasted so much high quality Italian wine in so short a period, except for during Vinitaly.

Maybe the wines are getting better, maybe I am just appreciating them more. Ever since the last trip to Tuscany in October, some kind of shift, in the way I look at and relate to Italian wines, has taken place.

I am sensing the place of the vine more in the wine. Something that one cannot always capture in a restaurant.

The picture above was taken on a walk in a neighborhood nearby. At first I wondered if this could really be true. Everybody loves pizza, everybody loves getting a massage. How about combining the two? The pizza dough and the viscera, both getting a work over. I could see endless possibilities for the wine list.

How about some Lacryma Christi, or some Bramaterra, a little room for Leverano, maybe some Gravina. Of course we’ll need some Squinzano and some Squillace. Mamertino will need to be represented, as will be Lacrima Di Morro d’Alba. Some Enfer d’Arvier and Bagnoli di Sopra should be included. Also some Valgella, as well as covering our Asti. We’ll have to Ghemme, as well as Primitivo, not to forget Matera from the Masseria. That should be enough DOC wines for this happening little Pizzeria.
The wines that my friend saw us tasting were from Vineyard Brands. Originally started by Robert Haas as a Burgundy and Rhone importer, once in a while they veer off into Italy. Caparzo and their other estate, Borgo Scopeto is in the portfolio. La Doga is a new Maremma winery along with Castello di Corbara from Umbria. Castello di Corbara is a wonderful project with Franco Bernabei overseeing the winemaking. Over at Borgo Scopeto Vittorio Fiore consults, but on site is a gentleman who is pure Tuscan. Pronounces his c’s like an “h”. He's what holds the soup together over there.

Borgo Scopeto has a Relais up the hill from the winery. Very hoity-toity, very fonzerific.
The Borgo Scopeto Chianti Classico has an advantage. The folks who own the property understand the finer things in life. They also appreciate the basic simplicity of a wine reflecting its locale. Open up a bottle of the wine and you are transported to Castelnuovo Berardenga. The gentleman, whose name I cannot remember, while fluent in French and appreciative of the tradition of French winemaking, is a guardian of the terroir of this land. The wines must have that energy, or they will be like so many of the manufactured Chiantis that abound.

Like so many of the Italian restaurants in so many places around America. Give it an Italian sounding name, dazzle 'em with b.s. We, in America, tart it up, put up a web site and throw in a little spin and before you know it folks are grilling lettuce and called it a Bar-B-Q Caesar salad.


Last night at dinner with my friend Enrico, he put it well. Speaking of a little place in Abruzzo, he said, “I’d be happy with a La Sosta to go to, once in a while.” La Sosta, I first went there nearly 20 years ago, and today it's still as wonderful and simple, hasn't pimped itself, hasn't fallen into the balsamic booby trap.
When are we going to “get on the good foot” for Italian wine and food? We need a James Brown of Italian wine.

Maybe we could draft Roberto Bava for that role. Certainly he has the music down. And the wine.

Roberto, are you listening?

Corporal Snark's Insight Wednesday

Garlic, Special Offerings & Planning Ahead

Last week, I was invited to lunch at a restaurant while it was being reviewed. I was really digging in - hummus, baba ghannouj, tabbouleh, typical Sicilian fare. I think it was the strong coffee with cardamom that sent me over the edge, along with the garlic that had been embedded in the eggplant. For the next 10 or so hours, I flailed around like a walrus that had swallowed a boulder.

Yesterday, I went for a souvlaki chicken dish, and again I was snarfing it up like there was no tomorrow. This time it was the thinly sliced onions and a bitter espresso.

OK, so I cannot eat garlic if it is raw. Or onions. In fact, the rock above, from Beaucastel, or the razor blade, would be easier for me to digest. But those restaurant folks keep jabbing me with too much garlic and onions.

This week, I was talking to some of my colleagues. A few days earlier, I had put out a trade offering on all the Brunellos our company had available. Erroneously, I had listed an item that had been set aside for a national restaurant program. We had cases listed, twice, of the same wine but one was almost double the price. One of our clients called in and wanted all of the wine at the lesser price, and wanted us to assure them that they would have an exclusive on those wines. Oh, and by the way, could we sweeten the deal by offering a further discount? So a wine that is normally $57, but might be $31, you’d like all of it, and you’d like a better discount?

How about no, and hell no?

I was driving around a fashionable area of town, looking for a new wine store. After circling the area about 3 times, I finally phoned a division manager and asked him to tell me where the place was. There was no sign. On one of the orbits, I got a call from another salesperson. It was regarding a special offer I put out about 10 days ago, on a producer of small-lot Riserva wines from Piedmont. The total allocation for the state is really about enough for one good account. Several accounts from across the state had called in, wanting all of the wine. One guy even wanted most of the wine, even though he didn’t really buy wine regularly. I guess the press got him excited about making money. You’d think he would be over the lottery-ticket fever of getting something for nothing? But, I digress.

Back to the salesperson who called during one of my orbits trying to find this cool new groovy wine shop. It seems this salesperson had a customer who wanted to buy some of that wine, too, but wanted to send an offer out to his retail clients to see if any of them “wanted” any. I explained to the nice salesperson that we probably wouldn't be able to help that person sell something on “consignment,” but that if he was interested in some of the wine to put their name in the hat. It was my impression that he didn’t really want to commit to buying any of the wine unless he got some customers, beforehand, to collect the money from. Meanwhile, all these groovy wonderful Italian wines in the photos are already in the warehouse. They stand waiting their turn to empty themselves all over the goblets and chalices of the urban wasteland. Poor little Barolos and sad little island wines.


A spell of rain and cold, some ice in the past week. The freeway pass in the picture has been in the news a lot. It’s high and not so dry, and people, in good weather, like to jump off it intentionally. During ice even more people's lives are imperiled. It makes the news folks feel like they’re doing a service to the community. Get me some warm soup without garlic. That would be a bigger help to me.
Winters here can be mild. Not so lately. Just 2 weeks ago I was taking out the Christmas tree, in NYC, from the apartment, in short sleeves. Union Square was lively, lots of apples and potatoes in the open market. Jackets were on sale at Filene’s Basement. Coats, too.

Yesterday, an appointment at a new and groovy steak house near the sports arena. The Stanley Cup was on display. We were there to work on a new Italian concept wine list. One of the partner/chefs was there, and we talked about the idea of embracing local sensitivities while pushing towards a greater expression of an original and truer kind of Italian menu. Sounded real good to me. Hmm.

Maybe it's time to bring out the picture of Modano, when we made pasta and served it in the said Stanley Cup, back in the last century. So long ago, it felt like the last millennia.
One of my colleagues was coming over tonight so we could finish up a quick turn-around proposal for the Italian concept we had met with earlier. He was running late. One of his customers ordered wine at the last minute for a party, and the truck was late. Now the truck had 47 delivery stops because a computer scheduled the poor driver to do so. Of course the client knew about this event more than a week before. The salesperson asked them to order it then, and the client procrastinated.

Before the salesman finally made it to my place, I got a call from another of his clients. It was now past 7 p.m. 'Seems the orders were all screwed up, keeps happening. He wanted the poor guy to come over. So I called the sales guy and tell him I can wait. He goes over to the client to make things right. He picks up a case of wine wrongfully ordered and sent. About three blocks from the client on his way to my home, the salesman gets a call from the account asking him to bring the wine back. He can use it now. Wtf!

Another client calls this poor guy up while we are trying to finish up this proposal. It is now 8:30 p.m. We still haven’t eaten dinner. Eggplant is in the oven (no garlic). Anyway, this client wants two cases of wine for his children’s school for a function on Feb 14. Hmm, donations for wine right about Valentine's Day. What a coincidence.

OK, so now we have finally gotten the first draft of the proposal done. The eggplant is ready, the salad is ready, we pop open a really nice bottle of Valpolicella and proceed to eat. My friend, his phone is still ringing. Another client is asking him about some menus that need to be laminated. It is now 9 p.m. This is more fun than being Jack Bauer.

And I have gone way over the 1,000-word limit this morning. Ain’t we got fun?

Just for fun, if you're still with me, I've embedded a fun little Lambretta commercial, which reminds me of the last week or so. Ciao for niao!