Sliding Past the Devil @ 60mph

Photo by Chema Madoz

A couple of years ago I was in a car on a freeway in wine country. The driver fell asleep and we went off the road, going about 60+ miles per hour. As we headed off the road, there appeared a tunnel in our path; it looked like the Gates of Hell. By some chance the driver managed to get back on the road, puncturing several of the tires, and, as the car swerved out of control, back onto the freeway, we headed straight towards a concrete barrier. The automobile wanted to flip, but instead, it crashed into the barriers, spun around and crashed again. We tagged a truck along the way, but all four of us walked out of a brand new, and totally wrecked, rental car.

After a brief visit to the hospital, we headed back to San Francisco, where three of the four of us headed back to New York and Italy. I remained in the city. Staying in the Marina district, I walked down to an Italian spot called A16. It was a busy Saturday night and the place was jammed with folk. Somehow I couldn’t get myself to walk in, maybe I was too shook up, maybe being around too many people was too much at that point. I stopped a few doors down ate a little sashimi and went to bed. I was sore for three weeks.
Two weeks after the accident, I was in Italy for the wine fair. I felt lucky to have escaped mortal injury. I knew when I saw my Gates of Hell that either I was going down or somehow we would walk. I guess the Italian Wine Trail wasn’t finished with me, yet.

There is a disturbance in The Wine Force. I have felt it lately. The wine industry is a mess. Consolidation, large getting larger, small spin-off companies surfacing like little republics after the fall of the Soviet Union. They stay in business just long enough to distract, like mosquitos after a warm summer rain. Warehouses are full, good salespeople are hard to find, managers even harder. Online wine commerce is growing. The dollar is weaker by the day and gasoline prices have risen 20+% since February. Getting Italian wine to America, without the wineries raising their prices, is already a challenge. And yes, some of them are raising their prices. Well that will work itself out in the marketplace, no need to gnash and wail over that one.

9:00 PM and a call tonight from a little Osteria. The owner was having a difficult time with a supplier. Because of this small distributor’s stupidity, the owner couldn’t get any wine, by law. And he had a couple of big parties. So I went over to sort things out. He was out of wine and needed a dry white to cook with, a sec for the sauté. Over a plate of Pasta alla Norma, we talked it over. Things are tough enough for the small business person, without having to deal with jerk vendors.

So again it's late and I'm driving home. And everywhere people are driving like Hell was closing in five minutes and they were all rushing to get in before the gates slammed behind them. One guy was even backing up from an off ramp thinking those of us who were going forward wouldn’t mind if he went against the flow of traffic, at 50+ miles per hour. Once again, the Angel was watching over me.

So what wine am I drinking tonight? I chose not to drink at the restaurant, although I had fresh strawberries that had been sitting in Sicilian Merlot for a few hours. That was a very nice thing to do for the Merlot.

But at home, all I wanted was my Sicilian orange brandy. I am becoming my grandfather with his nightly tass of brandy, un cognacchino. And after a day in the jungle, it’s really nice to sit in the quiet and peace of my lair with my glass of sunshine.

After all...tomorrow is another day.


“ Claret is the liquor for boys; port for men; but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.” — Samuel Johnson

Sunshine Puddin'

I have a little card file box of recipes, mostly favorites, from my wife, who is no longer with us. Some of the recipes are printed in a wonderful script from the days before her hand shook and she was unable to write. She was a Fort Worth girl and many of her recipes were homey and simple, and wonderful comfort food. So today, after many weeks of travel in hotels and restaurants, was the day to pull out the recipe for Sunshine Puddin'.

Bread, milk, eggs, cheese, sounds a little like a grocery list. A pot of coffee and some fresh orange juice and a fruit salad and Sunday, the day of rest, ah yes, I remember it well.

But today was not to be a day of rest, but rather a day to share stories and ideas about wine from the Veneto.

And unlike the last posting where I stood in front of people who just wanted me to fill up their wine glasses and check on the air conditioner, today they actually let me talk a little about the wines of Prosecco and Soave and Tocai and Valpolicella and Amarone. They got it. So while I technically worked today, like I tell my mom, yes I worked and though it seems like a vacation because I enjoy my work, it still is work. But that’s not a problem.


But when I came home, I came down. My body collapsed on the couch and I slipped into a quick, deep sleep for a couple of hours.


If you Google Sunshine Puddin(g) all kinds of things pop up. But not my gal’s recipe. Seems like we’re all sitting in a kind of sunshine pudding of our own making these days. Looking out over my last hotel room, the scene outside took on a Dante-esque aspect. Mid-May and temperatures approaching 90° F, gridlock on the roads and folks jamming the lunch spots before 11:30 AM.

Her recipe is a lot like some of the experiences I talk about regarding Italy. Memories of comfort, tastes and sensations of harmonious and pleasant foods, a familiarity with the table and the meal. Where are you going to? Comfort, Texas. Who are you going with? Pure and simple. Who do you think you are? Nobody, are you nobody too?


Look in the Mega stores, where life there offers so much more than just bread, milk, eggs and cheese. I don’t go there often, too many choices. And though the world of wine can also seem like that ( many choices, many countries, many price points) my idea is to put one foot in front of the next and just take a direction, look ahead, look up, slowly and simply. One doesn’t need the 90 point wine; all one needs it to get those little points of pleasure piqued inside ones palate.

It’s all along the lines folks are thinking about in relation to their life and their homes and their consumption of natural resources these days. Just like brown is the new black and 40 is the new 30, 1500 square feet is the new luxury home. Sound crazy? I have a friend who is contemplating going from a 1700 to a 900 square foot residence. Like he said, when he first got married and had two kids, it worked for all of them then. Maybe one has to be Italian, or to have lived in New York to appreciate this direction. It does give one the extra cash for that mountainside retreat in the Alto- Adige. Something to think about. Pass the puddin' please.

From Pot to Paté

…Don’t trust anyone over 60

Scrounging For Your Next Meal
So far this year, lots of “fine dining”, plenty of great wine. And the year ain’t even half over yet. So this might be shaping up as a rant, but don’t worry, it will be fair and balanced.

Tonight I was the wine host at an event of a wine and food group. I was told this is a serious group. Uhumm.
Mind you, there were a few friends there, so for their sake (and mine) it wasn’t a total loss. But for the most part, the people there were not really interested in learning too much about Italian wine. They were there for a good time, and wanted to make sure we kept their goblets filled. Oh and they also had plumbing and electrical issues they wanted me to attend to. Yessa Massa.

This from their core values page:
• We preserve the regional and ethnic culinary heritage of the table.
• We educate others on quality food and drink.
• We encourage professional research to grow our culinary culture and knowledge.

Not tonight we won’t; just don’t be running out of Montepulciano.

You Got Nothing to Lose You're Invisible Now
Anyway, many of the folks were retired and elderly, and really there were only a few folks who weren’t into what I had prepared. But that set the scene and made it highly improbable that I could share with the other people some stories and insights I thought a group like theirs might like.

Even though this group of people was collectively not too much older than me, I felt like a child who couldn’t get the parents to listen. Jeesh, I had that experience, back in the day.



Go To Him Now, He Calls You
So, I also interact with younger folk, people in their 20’s and 30’s. And while their attention span is somewhat short (they just “get it” quicker), I have been finding them to be more interested in what I have to say. As long as I keep it short and sweet (not like this blog).

All this to say, I belong to a generation that has passed from pot to paté in what seems like a short time.

Once Upon a Time You Dressed So Fine
I wrote elsewhere about a vegan meal I had last week in Austin, and a week later I am served bacon ice cream.

Last year in Verona I sat through 9 courses (out of 18) as an exercise in vegetarianism. Seen here is a mini-veggie burger with micro-frites and home made mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup.

Elsewhere, in Paris, an amuse-bouche of an egg in an elixir of sweet pea soup with a wedge of sour dough.

Have we traded in our bongs for Bandol, our sensimilla for semifreddo; have we gone from hash to haute cuisine. What happened?

Connoisseurship has led our generation from the hemp fields of Mendocino to the oyster farms of Marennes-Oléron. I hope this is leading somewhere. Because if all we end up with is the gout, then we have learned nothing.


Princess On the Steeple and All the Pretty People
Yes the dishes are beautiful, delicate, balanced creatures of culinary enchantment. Foams, emulsions, mostardas. Micro greens, fruit essences, heirloom potatoes, grass fed meats. Panama Red, White Widow, Northern Lights. Looking for that ultimate hit, that hook-up, that spirit in the sky. That somethingness outside of oneself that will complete oneself. Mannaggia.

This is perhaps an American perspective. I can’t say for sure if the Italians relate to this kind of process, the food thing comes so naturally to them as a culture.

I know today I was punished at lunch, 30 lashes by garlic, tortured by Bolognese. Tonight I was served food by a real Italian, so the risotto was correct, even the garlic was moderated, my community service to the wine and food group was at least served with a few small plates of real food.


How Does It Feel?
Where am I going? From where I sit, it seems that I might be going back to where I got these ideas; somewhere in my youthful idealism. Or maybe it is timeless hopefulness. In any event, I have had enough bad meals and I am close to having enough great meals. Where I am going is back to find my tribe: back to a simpler life. Not exactly meat and potatoes, but not fois gras either. I’m done with that. And this too. Good night, Gracie.







Apologies to Robert Zimmerman for the headings

A Rich Life...

...doesn't need a large bank account

But in places like Texas, shiny objects attract. It almost seems like they have passed a law down in Houston that makes it illegal to park your own car, must be valet parked. Even if there is a parking lot full of spaces, bright orange traffic cones block the driver from parking. And we wonder why Houstonians have a problem with weight?

In places like Ascoli Piceno, there is a town square, where people come to meet, walk around, have a coffee or an anisette, get some air, pet a dog. Defrag. There is no “entrance” that needs to be made, no one that must be impressed with a big shiny car. It’s a rich life.

The people of the Marche, where Ascoli is, have a secret. No one really knows about the region. When Marcheggiani immigrate to the Americas or Australia or Denmark or wherever, they have a higher return-home-rate than any other region. They like their place. They might go to Canada and open up a hardware store and work it for 30 years, but, zap; they pack it up and head for the hills. Or the beach. Or both. It’s a rich life.

I was talking with some friends about a mutual friend who recently did that. He was from the Marche and he bought a convent in a town called Monteprandone. A pretty little walled city from the 1200’s, historical, quaint, in the cool hills above the white sand beaches of San Benedetto del Tronto. Great seafood, great meat, awesome vegetables, pretty wines.

He was going to restructure the convent, bought a little parcel of the building next door. A couple of apartments, an office space, maybe a cooking and wine school. A destination for wine and food lovers. Unfortunately he didn’t get to spend much time with the project, as cancer had other ideas for his future. Bon anima.


Big buildings on a marshy plane, lots of dreams in those buildings. A lot of hopes. Probably a good deal centered on the goal of acquiring wealth, after all this is a golden triangle of opportunity. In the green space below the tall buildings are multi million dollar homes, 7,000-10,000 square feet. Usually with a couple whose children are grown and gone. Another home in Aspen, August spent in the cool mountains in another 7,000-10,000 square foot house. Is it a rich life?

Empty Terraces

I am looking out at a multi-level parking lot at 2 o’clock in the morning. It is empty. Of course it is. No one can park there; it is for the valet police, not for the driver of the car. Remember the "law"? So we build these empty buildings that we cannot use or that we only partially inhabit, spending time in them, trying to amass wealth, homes cars, riches, maybe even fame. And on the way home, in the traffic, trying to pick up a son or a daughter and take them to ballet or soccer, in the air conditioned bubble of a SUV or maybe a Maserati, do we look out over our village from the penthouse and see what this rich life has cost us?

That little family who worked their hardware store for 30 years and went back to the Marche is not wealthy in monetary terms. But when they open up the door of their little house (which is paid for), and walk into their garden filled with eggplant, oregano, grapes, tomatoes, basilico, arugula, artichokes and whatever else will fit , they look out over their “assets” and know they truly have the rich life.

Jam-Packed Terraces

Working on Mothers Day

Today started out like most Sundays. A little coffee, some breakfast, a bit of work in the garden. But like the past two or three Sundays, I have spent most of the afternoon packing and preparing to go back on the road, working in another region. Last week it was Austin, this week it will be Houston. Such is the exciting life of Italian Wine Guy. Hotels, early flights (tomorrow the plane departs at 6:30 am) and early meetings. Not complaining, just the time of the business where we all must beat the streets.

Monday my colleague, Guy Stout, and I will conduct a 2 hour seminar on Italian wine for 40 or so salespeople, complete with about 20 wines to taste. All before noon. Another Monday. Weather in Houston will be around 90° F with thunderstorms. So, hot and humid. Real glamorous.


Today my son couldn’t make it for dinner because he had to work. The other children also had work or meetings, so it was empty nest day. I called my mom and sisters, but nobody answered. I could talk to the ones who have already passed over; at least I know where to find them. So today I talked with my grandmothers and aunts and fathers and grandfathers and uncles. There were all together, just like the old days.


I guess I am a little tristé. I long for the days where the family got together. That was before therapy. I still miss those long tables and the stories and the uncles and aunts and cousins. Tables where I had my first sips of wine among family who guided my journey on the wine trail so that it would be sane and sober, most of the time.

Those wines from northern California; Zinfandel and Carignane and Alicante Bouschet.

Last week I was fortunate to taste the brash and unapologetic wines from Four Vines Winery in Paso Robles. Wines with names like The Heretic ( old vine Petite Sirah), Anarchy ( Syrah, Zinfandel and Mourvedre) and Maverick ( 100 year old Zinfandel from Grandpere vineyard in Amador County). Wines not ashamed to express their lineage, but wines that can still rock with the best of them, from Clapton to Modest Mouse. Old California strutting into the 21st century. Wines like I grew up with; red, smooth, delicious and proud to be alive.

Now I, or is it we, just have to get our families together by the long tables again and keep the fires stoked.

Three That Stood Out

Photo by Giuseppe Pino

You’re on the road four, maybe five days. Maybe it’s New York or New Orleans or Phoenix. And you’re ready to go home. A week in Austin well, I’m ready, il conto per favore.

Three wines that have stood out this week. A week filled with nothing but tasting. There were many wines not from Italy but I want to get us back on the wine trail in Italy. Sans weirdness, sans snark, just playing the part, without wise saws or modern instances.

Castellare Chianti Classico 2003
I often forget about this wine, usually I am breathing heavy over a bottle of Rampolla or Querciabella. A little ways down on the SR222, in Castellina in Chianti, the winery is situated on what the local people call “i sodi”, land too hard or steep for horses, vineyards that have to be worked by hand. This is an illusive wine, or maybe it is just too direct. Maybe I am looking round corners for an explanation of this wine, when right in front of me it stands, simply naked. Honest. True to its origins. It could be one of those ancient southern wines that I dream about or one of those wines made 4500 years ago in the Northern Sinai for the Egyptian rulers.

I am still tasting this wine, trying to figure out how it will fit into a world that wants it “right now”, because this isn’t a wine that will yield so quickly. Yes it’s right there in front of me, but the problem, Horatio, is that this isn’t part of the philosophy folks in many parts dream of. In hipper-than-California Austin? Let me slip my i-pod on and listen to a little Modest Mouse and I’ll get back to you. Maybe.

Back….better now. This is like a pair of jeans that are torn and worn and dirty, real cool. Only thing is, you didn’t buy it that way, you wore the jeans for years. You turned them that way by living with them, wearing them, sweating in them, dancing in them. This is not a store bought, plug-and-play Chianti Classico. This isn’t “old school”. This is “ancient school” Chianti. But like the winemakers of 2500BC, they had eight generations to polish their craft, get something to gleam.

Austin, or anyone who cares, take this bottle onto a porch in the late afternoon and spend an evening with it watching the earth turn.


Altesino Rosso di Montalcino 2003
Rosso di Montalcino used to not sell and then the wholesalers would close it out and give someone a good deal. Rosso di Montalcino is now as expensive as Brunello used to be. Rosso do Montalcino isn’t a shadow wine of the big brother. Past, present and future. We just have to get to the future part. It’s a funny thing, wine geeks go out of their way to dig up interesting wines from the Loire or Margaret River or Paso Robles. They exist; I was sipping on a very nice Bourguiel last night, followed by an old vine Petite Sirah from Lodi. Yeah, yeah.

So what are we gonna do with the not-so-big-Mamou?

I reckon all of Alesino’s Rosso di Montalcino is opened and drank sooner or later, so let someone else worry about that, for now.

I got up at 5:00 am and drove 200 miles. Around 9:45 I was tasting the Altesino Rosso do Montalcino on 6th Street in Austin with a client and the winemaker. After three plus hours of driving from Dallas I had arrived to Montalcino, I was in the Tuscan Hill Country. The glass was the passport. Smoky, dusty, oregano, dried porcini, a walk in the fields. Nice way to rid myself of driver’s legs. Sweet fruit, thick and juicy. Steak and eggs, with a side of garlic grits.

Viviani Amarone 2003
I know I probably talk too much about this winery. I get perturbed when I hear folks talking about what they think a great Amarone is. Walk the hills, get lost in your car in Negrar at midnight. Drive past Dal Forno’s place three or four times looking for a place more “garagista” than it is. Then talk to me about great Amarone.
Walk the walk first.

I shouldn’t even have to talk about this. You should already know the greatness of this wine, this estate. You should have already “gotten” this. I am an altar boy in my starched cassock, preparing the implements for the priest. Everything is ready, the candles are lit, the incense is loaded. The wine is poured into the cruets.

The aroma of this wine is reminiscent of the little San Gabriel Mission, tight, fine, ancient wood beams, light incense floating in the air, deep-roots sweat-and-blood. A high mass wine, the cardinal and the courtesan dine and drink alike when this wine is present.

So, while I haven’t exactly swerved back into the vortex of a reality most people would find recognizable, these are just a few notes gathered while trying to find my way back to the base camp.

Zapped in Spillville

Brunello on the Brazos
There must have been a vortex that I slipped through. Drove to Austin on Monday to meet Guido Orzalesi of Altesino. All went well; a little 2003 Rosso, some 2001 Brunello and an amazing 1997 Vin Santo. After work, driving around Austin tasting these and other wines, I took Guido to a non-Italian place. Not too far from the hotel, Sandra Bullock had just opened up her café, Bess. It was either that or Guero’s Taco Bar, and the last time I was there, the tacos al pastor were dried out and tasteless and the bartender treated me like a Yankee. Pineapple in a taco al pastor? I know, but this time is seemed so much like yuppy chow.

Talking with Dottore Guido, a young man who is really trying to help take Altesino and Montalcino into a realm of the world view. It was refreshing how he said the signs were good, but folks still compare their Brunello to their neighbors. Or rather talk about how much better theirs is than their neighbors. Invidia.

“Folks in Bordeaux say, our wine is better than Brunello, than Burgundy, than Napa” Guido said. “In Montalcino they say how much better their wine is than neighbor over the hill or the big company down the road. They cut down Brunello. Lafite and Mouton don’t cut Bordeaux down.” Amen.

I would so love to talk to the producers, say at Benvenuto Brunello, and offer my perspective. We must all work together, first, getting people to drink wine, then maybe red wine. Then Italian, and then Brunello. Over the next generation.

“The older generation went out in the 1980’s and told people around the world a little about Brunello. Then the land became valuable and more growers started making wine. But they ask a price for their wine without considering what the market can bear. All they see is their wealthy neighbor asking so much for their wine and the think, because they are next door or down the road, that they can ask the same, or more.”

Gold Bands on Grape Stained Hands
”What they don’t see is that large winery, or even a small one like us, going to America and elsewhere in the world, traveling away from home, from our families, to listen to wine buyers and sommeliers tell us what they are looking for. We don’t always hear what we want, sometimes we hear them angry with the prices and they tell us about the other wines of the world that are competing for their dollar. It is very sobering, how do you say, a reality check?”

Yes, a reality check in Austin, that’s an anomaly. Maybe we have slipped through a vortex.

The next day there was a ZAP tasting here in Austin, so everything stops. Italian wine business, etc. And Thursday there is a vertical Malbec tasting, so we must sell tomorrow and shovel coal, solo, the next day. Jeesh, the Italians in this town just don’t ever seem to get their due.

At the ZAP, I overheard a wine-industry wonkette, say, “Yeah, we spill more Zinfandel at our winery than all these folks make.” Sweet. Nice bragging point in ever-so-greener-than your town-Austin. Now, if you spill more Zinfandel than let’s say, Shiner Bock, maybe that would impress the locals. The ones who make the Berkeley-lovin’ guy feel like a Yank. Well, Mr. Borrego, back in Dallas, with his Mutton tacos and not-so-cool crowd, is seeming cooler and more grounded than these dreaded hipsters. The only thing he does with pineapple is juice it and serve it with a straw.

Scalpel, Suture, Winelist
So I get word an Italian restaurant, that a friend of mine is opening (and one of the reasons I have come to Austin) has a partner, a doctor, who is writing the wine list. So I have decided the only thing I can do is, buy a book and learn how to do open heart surgery. Without anesthesia. Just like in sales.

I called back home as I was driving up Congress Avenue; just thought I’d ask if maybe I died in my sleep last night and this was all part of hell. No answer. My watch said 6 o’clock, though the sun was directly overhead. Maybe I had sunk even lower than hell.

Who Wound Up the Wine Doll?
Back at the Zap tasting, some hand pats my butt, and I look around to see one who shouldn’t be. Someone who doesn’t even know the difference between a Dolcetto and a Roero. That can be a real turn-off. I’m now not just in hell, but Dante’s layer-cake hell. With only Zinfandel to drink.

Fortunately Donn Reisen of Ridge had a table with his Lytton Springs, York Creek and Geyserville Zinfandels.
A Berkeley alum, red wine that doesn’t burn, something I can swallow (after the umpteenth joke about, "hey Alfonso, where’s the Primitivo?")

Before yesterday, I was proud to be from California, and Palm Springs at that. The Old Mountain that I used to stare at as a kid, talking to San Jacinto. Now even that memory has been tarnished by an experience that I can only allude to, in a Schrambling-like crypticism.

I’ve gone way over my limit, and only a little hint about wine, the Ridge. Great stuff. Nuff said.

Back to the cake; see if we can burrow past the pineapple, out of this bete noire.

IWG & Baby B

Finding Your Spot

Have you ever had a wine that just hit all the points on your palate? It touched the sweet, the salty, the bitter, the sour, the spicy, the astringent, all the points. It hit the spot. That’s better than a 95 point wine, for the experience you are having is your unique interaction with a product that has been made by another person who doesn’t necessarily know you or know your tastes. So when it happens, it is pretty special.

I know, I know, just give us tasting notes or tell us about Italy, enough of this rambling. Maybe you just want to be told what to like, where to go in Italy, what to eat and drink, what pictures to look at. And you will be disappointed with what I am about to lay out. It’s just a map, not to anywhere you can find that easily. But once you get there, once you find your spot, you’ll be as good as the experts.

So where do you start? Let’s take a wine, let’s say a Primitivo from Puglia. Cantele makes a good one, basic, moderately priced, readily available.

Opening the wine, let it roll into your glass and swirl a little bit, give it some time, no need to rush. Get to know the wine, look at the color, note that is has a pretty, bright ruby color, is clear and fresh. As you take it to breathe in, close your eyes. What does it remind you of in your past? Is there something from childhood, or yesterday? Is there a memory of something from a walk, an earthy memory? What kind of fruit does it recall? Is there any of the barrel or is it unoaked? What about the wine reminds you of something totally not about wine?
Does it have a variety of aromas, or does one stand out?

Take a sip; don’t spit it out this time. Take another slightly larger taste; let it roll around your mouth like it did in the glass. Let it roll all across your palate, let it break upon the shores of your tongue and your back palate, let it roll. What’s your first impression? Is it pleasant? What does it make your think about, how does it make you feel? Do you have any cheese nearby? Give it a taste, and go back to trying the wine. How does it change the wine? Are your starting to feel hunger? Does it make your mouth water?

After you swallow, walk away from the wine, go sit somewhere away, go back to your book or your work or your computer. Or your garden. Wait about 10-15 minutes and involve yourself in some activity. Let it sink in.

It’s like looking at it from another point of view; maybe the distance gives another perspective. That simple.

So what do you think? Did it hit your spot? If so, really nice. If not, try again. That’s really a simple exercise that anyone can do. It takes more time than expertise but if you are taking at a relatively slow pace, one can, over time become pretty adept at finding your spot.

You don’t have to load up a cellar with trophies, or buy the most expensive wine on the list. In fact the discipline of finding the wine that was put on the list for you (the expert) can be like a treasure hunt. So very much fun. And buying wine becomes more like going on a vacation, looking for something unique that resonates with your points. Today there are many places where you can taste wine before buying. You don’t have to worry about what the masters or the influential journalists think about it. By the way, they are also on a road to discovery every time they taste. They too are learning, if they are going about it with humility and a love of discovery.

It’s not all black and white, finding your spot. Sometimes you can go right to it, sometimes you stumble upon it and sometimes you walk right past it.


Whatever you do, don’t let anyone tell you what you are tasting and smelling, that which is unique to you. And don’t let them tell you what you are smelling or tasting is wrong, how can they know what your experience is anyway? Experience in life, not wine tasting. That is your unique experience and it colors your sensory experiences.


Finding your spot is something we all look for in wine tasting, and other experiences on the wine trail in Italy, and everywhere esle, in time and space.

















As a matter of note, all the pictures were taken at Dealey Plaza in Dallas. The occasion was the 40th anniversary of the assassination of John Kennedy. There were tourists milling around the spot where the infamous deed took place, in fact they were having their pictures taken on the very spot (or spots) where the bullets took their toll.

Why Italians Are So Confusing

So, the intern was a little concerned? Just a busy week, is all. End of the month, beginning of another, get off one bronking bull and hop on another one.

In the local market, at a boutique wine shop this week, one of the best in town. At the Italian aisle, and a lady is asking about the difference between these two wines that have similar labels.

She really liked the Guisto di Notri from Tua Rita, but the Di Majo Norante Sangiovese was also interesting to her. I explained the differences; one is from Tuscany, the other is from Molise. Both are IGT wines, Indicazione Geografica Tipica. The Tua Rita is a Cabernet/Merlot blend and the Di Majo Norante is a Sangiovese. Both have superstar wine consultants, Tua Rita has Stefano Chioccioli; Di Majo Norante has Riccardo Cotarella.

Tua Rita has a total production of 4,000 cases, and this Giusto di Notri has gotten high marks from all the wine reviews for the vintage on the shelf (2004). The Di Majo Norante Sangiovese is a larger production (20,ooo+ cs), but has also gotten high marks (90) for the wine on the shelf, also a 2004.

But one wine was $95. And the other was $9.99. Her question to me was, what makes that $95. wine worth almost 10 times the other one that is $9.99?

In reality both wines cost pretty well much the same to make, maybe a dollar or two more a bottle? The Tuscan wine is a new area, so maybe the real estate is approaching a high-water mark. The Molise region is inexpensive and production costs there are probably not too bad. So, what gives?

Status, rarity, cold-hard caché. Simple? Or are you confused too?


If I’m looking at these wines and getting into the heads of the people who come into a store for a bottle or two of wine, I’ve got to try and see it from a couple of points of view.

I know the Giusto di Notri is a delicious wine. And I like drinking it, even if it is a Bordeaux blend from the fashionable Maremma area of coastal Tuscany. Sassicaia and company. 16th arrondissement. Saturday night wine. Alto-borghese. Now do you begin to see the arrangement?

Molise is a mark on a map with an Autostrada going through it. It isn’t a destination. There is not a Metro that goes to this neighborhood. Working class, backwater, are you beginning to see the difference?

Wait, you say? It is still Italy, it’s not like it’s third world or developing economy. By God, it is still Italy. Yes it is, and it is sure to grow its prestige in the next generation or so, because of the real estate. Is the wine stellar? Is that what you need on a Tuesday night, have you become so jaded that all wines must be revelations from a higher more intelligent Being? It’s Tuesday, pizza night, remember? It will be just fine.

But, as a friend likes to say, the reality is, that looking at these two wines, unless one knows, one would probably do what that woman did. She picked up the $9.99 wine because she could relate to it. Oh, and well, she was having pizza. After all, it was only Tuesday.

Faster, Pussycat

Guest commentary by Beatrice Russo

Well, he’s at it again, gone all Willy Wonka on us. After I texted him on a question about Albarino he seemed to go into another dimension. I talked to his son, he said he’d been over to his apartment a few days earlier and had tried out his new inversion table, took two turns at being upside down. I came over to the house to bring him a bottle of his special Italian orange liqueur, thinking we could talk about my upcoming first level sommelier test, but all I could find was a bunch of papers, what seemed like an interview with a fried potato, I tell you, he's pushing it.

Last week I was helping him with a new project. Numbers stuff, easy, basic algebra that my dad taught me (he was a math teacher). Italian Wine Guy has a new project, top secret stuff, and he has been asking me to gather national figures from the Italian Trade Commission and other places that gather sales and import figures.

I know he was going out of town, but I thought it was next week. Austin? He said something about Chicago; I know there’s a Wine Spectator Grand Tasting event there next week. But that’s not his deal. He once showed me an old WS from the 80’s, he collected them and old Rolling Stone magazines when they were both printed on newspaper. Weird.


He said he dreamt about his first real car, a Porsche Speedster. I’ve seen a picture, nice looking wheels. And this new wine label with the three girls and a donkey has him trying to figure out if it will work or not. I like the Falanghina idea, not too cool on the Montepulciano, though. Maybe he should rethink that, but hey, what do I know, I’m just an intern.

I did get an email about what a tough month April was, even though he seemed to be having a pretty good time, going all over Italy while I watched his house and his stray cat and watered the vegetable garden. While he ate at Perbellini and Belvedere and Bottega del Vino and Ciccarelli. Yeah, I feel for his sorry old donkey-butt.



I did see an open letter from his doctor, something about cholesterol and thyroid. My grand-dad had something wrong like that, used to pass out once in a while. I hope he’s OK.

I just got a text from him, he’s with a Spanish wine producer from Galicia, they’re eating blue crab and drinking Albarino. Wait, I was just asking him about that darn wine and now he’s, what? He’s in the zone.

So the text ended with “Faster, pussycat.” Dude is out there. I’ve got to get to yoga. He'll be back, just sounds busy with his glorious life.
















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