Vines In Exile

An Italian immigrant family, new to America, plants some grapevines that they brought from their homeland.

100 years later a land developer in Northern California buys the property for a housing development. The vines, struggling and surviving, all these years in exile, now face the ax. They had a long life, their family is long gone, now part of the American experiment. So?

What should we do with these vines? If they came here today they would be here illegally. Maybe they brought disease within their roots, a type that isn’t right for this landscape. Sure they have adapted, and survived, often for years without care or attention. But they are in the way; they are not part of the future plan for the place. So why shouldn’t they be taken out?

In places like Cucamonga, Hollister and Napa, the immigrant's vines are losing out. Old dreams replaced with newer ones.
Cabernet is more profitable in Napa, so out goes the 100 year old Petite Sirah vines, dry farmed, hearty characters. In come the McCabernets.

Mataro and Zinfandel in Hollister, must it also go back over the fence? Urban sprawl needs houses for the American citizens.

Barbera and Calabrese vines in Cucamonga are declared enemy combatants, they are here without papers and no one knows how they got in. But they must be sequestered and all this must be sorted out.

In the valleys above Santa Barbara, vines were planted by undocumented Sicilians. Damaschino, Carricante, Perricone, all must go. This is a premium area for the elite whites, Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc.

In Italy, they find a neglected vine, resuscitate it, and voila a new heirloom is brought back into the family. A pile of rubble, maybe there since 65 AD, sits until someone finds a cave underneath and an ancient city and culture is brought back to life. It happens all the time. Over there.

I visited my Alma Mater the other day. There is an adobe wall in the garden area. It was from the 1700’s, in an area where the wine was made. This wall has been restored, propped up as a reminder of the toils of others who made our present lives so much more comfortable. It happens, in little doses, often for symbolic purposes.


The sense I have gotten, these few days on the edge of the Pacific, is that the ways of those who came before us are worthy of retaining if it doesn’t get in the way of who we think we are and where we want to go. Is that any different than they way this culture acted towards the indigenous Americans in the past? How far away must we send them? Should the Calabrese grapes and the Sicilian immigrants be returned as well?

The Charbono of Ernie Fortino, the Barbera of John Filice, The Mataro of Bob Enz, have we treated these vines and humans like the treasures they are? Or have we declared them to longer be of interest to us, have we put them on their Trail of Tears?

Has the California that I grew up in long disappeared under the wall of time?

Sitting on a Hill, Looking at a Sunset

Monterey, California

Many years ago a teacher told me if I wanted to meet someone famous or important, that I should get in touch with that someone. I did that with a photographer, Wynn Bullock, whose photographs are on this posting.

I called him up and he told me to come and visit him. We talked for several hours. He was a philosopher; spoke a lot about dark and light, the spaces between the film grains.

I learned a lot from him, not just about photography. To him, photography was a means to seeing the world, seen and unseen. You didn’t need to have a camera.

When I last saw him, he was talking like he was preparing to transition from this life to another. I thought he sounded like someone who was dying. Maybe it was just a young man looking at an elderly person, thinking that it was inevitable.

Go into your wine cellar, go to your wine rack. This weekend, open a bottle of something really special, something you have been saving or perhaps spent a lot of money to acquire. Forget how much you could re-sell it for, open the darn bottle, with friends or family.


I don’t have a lot of words, the picture of the typewriter pretty much says it all in this moment.

The images were recorded in California, but they could be Italy, or anywhere.

More later this week.


Photographs by Wynn Bullock

A Poem Pressed into Service as a City

Far from the vines and the work of the farm is the place where much of the wine goes: the city. And while it is great to get to Italy and head for the agriturismos and castellos and spiaggias, from time to time, the urban pilgrimage must be made.

Rome always seems to be along the way, a place to get caught up on the time zone, grab a meal, visit a spot or two and move on. But Rome is more than a layover. For me once, it was a whole summer: I fell in love with the Eternal City.

Fellini made sure I would come back, once I saw his films. Odd, I probably know Paris better, but Rome has a few secrets of mine stashed away in the ancient neighborhoods.


Could you spend a week there? One could spend a lifetime there and never completely know the place. There is an erratic rhythm to Rome. It doesn’t always hum. But a Saturday night, making the passeggiata, arm-in-arm, with all of Rome is an experience I wish everyone could have. It is like walking with history, with the old citizens from thousands of years ago, as well as the new pulsating life to come under the cobblestones. Rome could exist on its own, transplanted to an island or another planet, I am sure of this.

I rarely go there these days. I have less time and patience with the mind-numbing tourists that block a painting or complain about a line into a cathedral. And when they are turned away because they aren’t dressed appropriately, please. I would rather just be in a cool little café with a fan and a liter of Colli Albani Bianco poured from an earthenware pitcher.

Not to say it isn’t a casual city. For sure, there are folks who use Rome as their living room, bedroom, even bathroom. But it’s all in the delivery and the intention. There are Romans who see the city as their home, literally, and they use the parks and the trattorias and the churches to live out their lives. A mixture of ancient layered with whatever we have dreamt up lately, it all goes onto the buffet for the pranzo.

A party among Romans feels like a celebration among souls who have spent many lifetimes among themselves. There is a familiarity and a cousin-ness that makes a party seem more like a family reunion. Really the only place on earth I have ever felt that. Perhaps one could say the Bay Area of Northern California in the late 60’s-early 70’s, but so far only a generation of that, not 90 or 100 generations of the kind of energy I feel in the hills of Rome.

And the food and the wine, not just from the surrounding areas. Also from distant cultures and epochs: foods from the Jews, the Greeks, the French, the Africans, and on. Rome is a city where, if you go into a small trattoria, you might find a wine list not only with wine from the local region or Italy, but even from vineyards in France, and beyond. Everyone goes to Rome, even born-in-a-bubble American politicians, though they never stay there long enough to have the spirit of the place (or the history) rub off on them in any beneficial manner.

For years my favorite place to stay would be the Raphael, between Piazza Navona and Piazza Pantheon. It is a small hotel, away from the traffic and the noise of the modern city. The rooms often look out onto a private garden; there is a sense of serenity in the space. One of my joys would be to get into the room after traveling from The States. I'd take a shower in the Roman water, a baptism of sorts in the soft embrace that the ancients would have known. Then a short, sweet, nap. A blessed slumber. Just enough to get disoriented in the late afternoon, and take to the streets in search of dinner.

Fortunato al Pantheon, a short walk from the hotel, would always have a plate of artichokes or string beans, some appetizer thing fresh from the sea, an out-of-this-world pasta or gnocchi, and a roasted fish with lemon and olive oil. There, one can order any kind of wine, so perhaps a bottle of Gavi or Prosecco to start, moving into a rosato from Tuscany, and either staying there or going to a light red like something from the Maremma or from Valtellina, or perhaps Campania or Sicily. Fortunato will guide, so one doesn’t really need to study up on it. In fact, for me, the beauty of Rome is to simply arrive. The city will cradle you upon its bosom and fill you with all the knowledge and experience that you will need for your time there.

On my first trip to Rome, I was as helpless as Romulus and Remus. I landed on August 15, Ferragosto, a national holiday. There was no place to exchange money, and I had no Lira. I walked around the Stazione Termine, the train station, and found a small pensione, with a lady who took me in and rented me a (shared) room with a bathroom down the hall. I still have fond memories of landing in a foreign country, unknown by anyone, and being treated with kindness and hospitality.

That Rome still exists. You might choose to stay in a 3- or a 4-star hotel, but one can find an overlapping sense of an ancient cult, maybe Cybele or Dionysius. Don’t think of Rome as merely a hotel stop before or after a trip, or just a repository of museum artifacts. It is a vibrating, living city that has had more experience being a city than most urban areas on earth. It is the birthplace of ancient love and drama, with a little tragedy and a lot of patina. For the traveler along the wine trail, it is a place to stop and savor timelessness.

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

wine blog +  Italian wine blog + Italy W

Buen Retiro ~ Breeze, Buzz & Zibibbo

The Sicilians are laughing at me. We Americans, who take ourselves so seriously, have let life pass us by, once again. The car is packed, the beach house is ready, they stand by the car waiting for us to show. It’s time to go to the beach, it’s time to go to the “island”. But there is work to do, and wines to sell and taste, and markets to develop and, and, and the heart pounds like the ball at Times Square, waiting for the hammer to drop and smash it into a thousand pieces.

The lights dim, the crowd looks up, and the death-defying act plays out with no net. Some choose the beach and the others, we seriously self-absorbed Americans, we choose to work, to push the limits, to taunt the muse with our obstinate work ethic. Or is it rote, is it not knowing what to do with the time if there wasn’t some task, some challenge, some irresistible opportunity to sell, sell, sell? Conquer the world, again, this time with Italian wines? "Cu Sgarra Paga*" isn't just for the tightrope act.

The Italians have got this right. Go to the beach, go to an island, get away. Go away is more like what I have been hearing, but I’ll take the hint. It’s time to take a haiku, grab a towel, hit the beach.

California is a closer hop than Pantelleria or Ischia, so back home we go. I have a little visit to make to the Alma Mater, for a little graduation day luncheon and toast in the Mission Gardens with a few old friends. Then over the hill to Monterey; this is my dream, my fantasy island.

A deserted stretch of beach, the Pacific happily waving in the background, a group of students and the master. She’s the little old lady in the white cap. What would Imogene say? She’d probably laugh and tell me to take my camera out and start taking picture of things, that’s our meditation. And with digital technology, less silver, less chemicals, just spending more time out there among the essence. So, whether it’s Cannery Row or the salt mines of Trapani, one can zone out and take some respite, the buen retiro that is needed from time to time.

That is where the California of my mind seamlessly weaves into the Italy of the same shared pathology. It’s most likely flawed, but hey, it’s my fantasy and it counters this casual-Friday existence we’ve fooled ourselves into. We don’t work 4 days, many of us don’t just work 5 days. How about half a day or more on Saturday and 3-4 hours on a Sunday? And how about this, if we didn’t where would this duck soup of an industry be? Even more in the tank? Probably not, except for those of us who take ourselves too seriously. But seriously folks...

I remember telling my Pop that it wasn’t about the money, it was about the passion, the art. Well, OK, I got my wish, it wasn’t about the money. But right now, the sun is crackling around the edges of my towel and the water is cool and blue and deep.


A dry Moscato, made from the Zibibbo, a wind blowing off the water up into the hills, the fig tree dripping with fruit, the bees swarming the flowers and the ripeness of the island. All the area is buzzing, humming, nature conducting the ripeness movement. Breeze, buzz and Zibibbo, sitting under the portico, in a shady spot, a couple of figs, a few slices of prosciutto, a chunk of Caciocavallo, happy mandolin music chirping out Bella Luna, “De plane, boss, de plane, she has landed.”

Drag yourself away from the work, the world, the drama, from time to time. My Sicilian family didn’t wait for me, they left, as they have for years. If it is Mondello or Monterey, get thee to a beach, to that unreachable place, before they pick your pieces out of a car with a pair of tweezers. Maybe the great Wallenda can walk across the tightrope without a net, but why do that when a plate of figs and cheese and cured meat waits for you on the patio?

Me, I’m going to Point Lobos, to stare at the tide pools. All with a lilting Sicilian song in my head, keeping the wolf at bay and the work gremlins away. "Surdu mutu orbu sugnu**."





* Who Fails, Pays
** Blind, deaf and dumb am I

All Photographs by the author

Super Tuscans ~ Best of Show

Picking the right Super Tuscan can sometime seem like judging the best dog at a show. There are so many breeds and manifestations, of wine and dogness. The following six are a few of my picks for Best of Show.

Camartina is a wine with a point. Focused fruit, this wine was made on purpose. What does that mean? The winery, Querciabella, makes an exemplary Chianti Classico. Camartina is 50% Sangiovese, 45% Cabernet, 5% Merlot and Syrah, picked by hand and harvested by individual cluster maturation.

Definite pedigree, as if it has been bred to the Nth degree. From the heart of the Chianti Classico zone in Greve, sustainable farming going towards biodynamic. That would be organic, again, to the Nth degree. French oak, and a fair share of it new, I am not afraid to give this wine high marks. It is immensely enjoyable and delicious. The last vintage I had was the 2003, but the 2004 we tasted several times at Vinitaly, and it promises to be a wonderful succession.

One note: It can take itself a bit seriously, but it loves the dirt and the wood and in the final result it is just one of the fellas that love a good time when it sheds its leash of oak and tannin, which it can. Often.


Ghiaie della Furba is a royal treat, a red wine that seems infinite in its pleasure, without beginning without end, big and long and traditional and a champion.

Near Florence, the area of Prato is a collection of hills and rivers, and prime real estate among them is the Capezzana estate. The wine is made up of 60% Cabernet Sauvignon, 30% Merlot, 10% Syrah from hillside vineyards planted in the 1970’s. The rows of Cabernet owe their heritage to the Rothschild family of Chateau Lafite , from where the cuttings were acquired.

The beauty of this wine, although it seems like it’s big and furry, is really a smooth, easy going red. Not wishy-washy, but a friendly partner to a meal of roasted lamb or beef. It can age very well for 10-20 years. The last vintage I had was the 2000 at the winery in October, and tried again at Vinitaly, both showings exhibited richness and elegance in an unrestrained yet likeable in a shaggy dog kind of way.

Il Borro is close to Arezzo in the Colli Aretini. It is a beautiful resort from once a medieval village that has been restored by the Ferragamo family. The grapes, 50% Merlot, 40% Cabernet Sauvignon, 10% Syrah and Petit Verdot, again favor the French grapes and they shine well in this Tuscan sun. Highly bred for speed and pedigree from a family with the time and the money and the personal lineage. And while it might seem like an idle pastime for the super wealthy of Italy, this wine shows that it has the qualifications to take top honors. The current vintage available is 2002 and while it follows the classic 2001, it has the touch of the sun and a new-world strain to ramp it up and take it into the finals.

Borgonero from Borgo Scopeto near Siena in Castelnuovo Berardenga is the estate’s homage to the Super Tuscan as a New World breed. The last vintage I tried at the winery was the 2001, a spot-on classic. A big lovable watchdog, loyal and forthright, not, unreasonably aggressive. A balanced quaff of 60% Sangiovese, 20% Syrah and 20% Cabernet Sauvignon. It can open up fast and head for the great sunset in the sky in search of bar-b-que or something attached to a bone, red meat, preferably. And while maybe not a show stopper, it could be your new best friend. An absolutely juicy and delicious pick.


Il Carbonaione takes us back to the Chianti Classico zone and to Poggio Scalette, where the twin passions of olives and grapes wrestle in a power struggle of timeless proportions, as old as Adam and Eve. In this case the dark beast returns to the traditional grape of the region, 100% Sangiovese di Lamole (a naturally low yielding clone of Sangiovese) the last vintage tried was the 2001, a wine that drips of coffee, blackberries, toasted oak; dark, brooding, big and a bit aggressive. But it has a big heart and can be a faithful friend to the wine lover. Will it win the hearts of everyone? You be the judge.



Petra, the showgirl from the Maremma, complete with pedigree and personal stylist on-call. A blend of old-vine Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon inherited from the previous masters, and retrofitted with a state-of-the-art grape museum and wine-kennel. In an area known more for its marshes and racehorses, this is a happy and stylish Tuscan. My recent encounter at the big show in Verona was with the 2003, a barrel fermented fruit-bomb that nonetheless charmed me with its balance and its casual acceptance of its place in the grand scheme of things.


Photographs from the 1978 series "chien et patron" by Florence photojournalist, Maurizio Berlincioni

The Cadillac of Red Wine

Say what you want about the Holy Trinity of Italian red wines, Barbaresco, Barolo and Brunello; in these heady days, I am smitten over Amarone.

Producers boutique and large have dramatically enhanced the quality in the last 20 years. Producers such as Allegrini, Dal Forno, Le Ragose and Viviani, along with some of the bigger properties, Bertani, Masi, Sartori and Zenato have all contributed to the deserved reputation of this great wine.

The press has been great, the scenery is breathtaking. The wines are versatile with many foods and the little sister, a Valpolicella Superiore Ripasso, is a rock star. The winemakers are hard working, productive and honest. The stars are all lined up.

But I am looking in my wine closet and seeing bottles of French wine in there that I can no longer afford to buy. Wines like Mouton and Latour from Bordeaux, La Chapelle and La Landonne from the Rhone, and I am starting to see wines from the Veneto that are giving me that same queasy feeling. I fear I could be taking my last ride in the convertible with this pretty lady.


Let’s take a look at this.

Land Prices. In Bordeaux a hectare (2.47 acres) of first growth property goes for about €2,000,000 ($2,688,000). In the Veneto in the Cartizze vineyard a hectare of property there goes for about €1,000,000 ($1,344,000). Closer in to the Valpolicella Classico zone hectare of prime vineyard property goes for about €800,000 ($1,075,000). That’s $435,000 an acre. Primo acreage in Napa is going for about $180,000 an acre, no house, no winery, just land, maybe planted to vines, maybe not.

So land in Valpolicella is 2.4 times what it is in Napa. And if Napa producers can get $100 a bottle for their primo red, why can’t Amarone fetch $240.00?

The answer is, it can and it does, in some cases.

However….

The rate at which Italian wine fashions are evolving is rapid. Lest we forget, let me illustrate.

Ads from the 1980's

So what am I getting at? Many producers who say they haven’t raised their prices in years are starting to do so. Along with the weakness of the dollar, we are starting to see the kind of increases in Valpolicella and Amarone this year that we have seen at the pump. In other words, dramatic. People will find a way to buy gasoline at the asking price, I’m not so sure of that for Valpolicella and Amarone. Puglia, down the road, is pumping out attractive wines, and Sardegna is offering great value for extracted fruit-forward reds. The Cadillac, though long and sleek and lovely, can rust and fall from favor. My concern is that we have already descended down that treacherous wine trail. And it might be hard to dig out of this one before it’s too late.

Gen-X ~ Marks Its Spot

So much for my pastoral wonderings. I tried to rally today but was buffeted back by a still weakened system. Beatrice says she has something to post and I agreed on the grounds that it wasn't a wild rant. After all, that is within my purview. Somebody, please hire her. - IWG


Guest commentary by Beatrice Russo

An e-mail interchange with my friend Patrizia in Florence, Italy (yes I changed her name and asked her if it was OK) . I'm doing this as a favor to the sick old man, he looks pretty craggy. I really need to be looking for different work, I can't spend another summer in a steak house - BR

Dear Bea,

E-mailing to you because I cannot communicate here with anyone approximately this. But because you come from my generation, that what they call Gen-Y or the Millennials, I think that you will understand. And because your crazy uncle is in the Italian commerce of the wine and is here in Italy also that he works for our crazy men, perhaps can resolve this problem.

You know I live to Firenze and I work in the district of Chianti Classico. You know the wine cellar. And it is good because the laborers think there in the important things that they are like me. Things like organic and sostenibile and not using more fuel. Therefore, when I say to my boss, that he comes from that first generation, called X, approximately wishing to work from my home two days a week, he asks to me because? I say because we are connected with the Internet and to obtain within and outside from Firenze is therefore difficult and wish to use my time and energy more efficiently. He says, as I know you so little, how would I know you would not be in a café in some place or surfing the Internet?

That generation of X has been developed in not trusting of anyone? I say that, Y follows the X but I do not wish to follow this generation. Oh yes, they make a big display, what we call a bella figura, about their title and their position and their wealth when they have it. Even if they would only inherit them. And they are all Dottore, a country has filled up of pigro Dottore’s! Which thing are they called, Yes-men? Minchia, therefore I am so angry, my Sicilian grandmother is bubbling in the inner part of me.

Therefore the result is, because this Dottore does not trust me to working away from the center two days, I cannot. Now he cannot dismiss me, but he can pay to me wages so small that I must amuse myself to make one life. And the rents of the apartment to Firenze are like Saint Francisco in which my sister lives. Therefore it is much expensive living here on a 1200 Euro month.

You think I could communicate with an American company to be their representative here? Perhaps the managing of relationships with Italian wine companies? Am I totally lost? I watch the heads of this so-noted generation X and feel frightened and angry and helpless. And, they, behaving like a crosspiece between Berlusconi and the mother Teresa, touching nothing therefore cannot be culpable of anything. But taking credit for anything that people below them do well, and they do that all the time!

Is this like that in America? Is this generation already worse than the famous flower-child boomers? I think so; at least the flower-child-boomers came to Firenze during the floods in 1966, and cleaned up the city for months, asking for nothing.

Today, if you asked my manager to make something similar, he would transmit an email to the office of the agricultural department in order to go to Firenze. And then in order to put himself in a good light he would present an official press release, talking about how great his leadership is for Toscany and Italy. I am not kidding!

I’m sorry Bea, but we are friends and I want to ask you how in your country it works with these X-men.
(Sorry for my English:)

Your friend,
Patrizia


Dear Patrizia,

I cannot say from experience because I barely have enough work to afford to live on my own. I do not have health insurance. Because I was orphaned, I have some benefits. But until I finish college, and I'm not sure I will, I cannot get work in the wine industry of the uncle, as you call him. He is a “flower-child-boomer” (I love that, where did you come up with that?), and quite harmless, and we talk about the generation between us, from time to time. He doesn’t get them, I don’t get them, I really see no reason for their existence, so many of them are just grown-up slackers; I just don’t want to work under them.

X-Men ~ from tie-dye to tie guys

They say they don’t want controversy, they say they want everyone to speak in normal tones, conform to a standard. But 5 o’clock comes and they are gone sailing. Try to reach them before 9 o’clock in the morning or during the weekends, and forget it. I am so ready for their sun to set. And it will, sooner than they think.

On another subject, so what kind of wine have you been tasting lately? I recently bagged a few half-chewed bottles of wine over at uncle’s house, from a very delicious California winery called Four Vines. The old Italian wine guy was going off on these wines, really got his head spinning, like he was 20 again and driving up the California coastline in his funky old Fiat (no offense).

I tasted two I thought were pretty awesome, one was called Anarchy (of course), some old vine Zinfandel, Syrah and Mourvedre blend that I had with some Satay. I was in heaven. The other wine was also red, called the Heretic, a Petite Sirah that reminded me of that Maremma wine we were talking about from your friend Francesca’s winery.

Look, get a visa and we’ll invade uncle’s house and his wine cellar. His son is around and has a group of interesting friends. Uncle says the X-generation reminds him of a 5 year-old Beaujolais wine, old before it’s time. I think he’s frustrated with them too. Maybe we can talk him into liberating a small company and we all can run it. Into the ground, ha-ha! You should come here if it gets too depressing in Italy, there's room for another smart, beautiful Italian woman.

Ciao,
Bea

(p.s. don’t worry ‘bout your english, my italian’s not so good either :)


Dear Bea,

Oh, you crazy American girl. Thanks, I have needed to communicate it with someone without telling to so many other people around. I know it would be safe turning to you. Maybe I will come, maybe I should! Find us two ripe boys and I will be there even sooner.

I have tasted a wine that is turning around lately in the wine bars here in Firenze. One wine bar is called I Fratellini. It is one appreciated very because they carry this wine from the country that I only see in the laboratory. They call it Grand Noir and the pulp of the grape is dark ; it is violet and very colorful. It reminds me of a wine as Barbera or a Gigondas (my aunt comes from Avignon) and it is a lot interesting. I have an image but the label is much disgustosa and messy. That is my one divertimento.

Well I must get back to work; here comes "Il Duce" looking over my shoulder.

Ciao Bella,

Patrizia

The Nature Trails of Italy

The past few days have been a blur. Somehow, something hit me, and I became a host for a germ party. So blogging and wine have not been high on my list.

In fact, putting out three unique posts a week in the last year has taken a bit of a toll. And while I don’t intend to stop, somewhere down the road this will probably go to a twice weekly kind of activity. It’s just too much to do. We'll see.

I've been thinking about nature trails of Italy, trails like we have so many of in America. Where I come from in the West, we were always on some trail or another, looking at coyotes, hawks, ponderosa pines, majestic mountains. My childhood, was spent sitting before a very large and wonderful mountain, Mt. San Jacinto, and just staring into the many faces and aspects of it. Different times of the day or the year, there would be familiar scenes that would show up.

I don’t ever have enough time to take those trails in Italy, but once in a while I have been lucky to get on a little path, something that usually didn’t have anything to do with wine or grapes, but everything to do with being a lover of nature.

It was the 4th of July and a Sunday, and a group of friends decided to go up into the hills in the Marche and have a mass and a picnic. There was a little chapel where we first stopped. Some of the youth set up their instruments and music and played through the mass. On the way down to lunch, I was talking to the priest. We talked about wine and he was so proud that the wine he used in the mass was a D.O.C. from the Marche. Ah yes, Italy, where even the little details matter.

By a summer house people started setting up the charcoal cookers and setting the long tables, for now we were a larger group of 30. About this time someone suggested a hike, which struck me as funny, because I had never really been around Italians who liked to hike. In my early days, like I said, we were always doing that sort of activity, but in Italy, it was unheard of. So I jumped at the thought of getting on a trail and seeing how the Italians would deal with it.


The hike was beautiful; we truly got out and away, to the point where we got lost. One of us had a cell phone and they called the home base and someone honked horns and walked us in back to the waiting lunch. Really a funny experience and one that I will remember along with my river rafting and mountain climbing experiences.

Even though it was the 4th of July and we weren’t in America where the holiday was celebrated, we had food that reminded me of home. Watermelon, roasted sausages (resembling hot dogs, but much better tasting) and corn on the cob, something I rarely find in Italy. And lots of red wine from the Marche, Rosso Piceno, Sangiovese married to Montepulciano, a wonderful combination. And while I love Sangiovese on its own and Montepulciano in purezza, the combination of these two grapes is special. Fruity, savory, spicy, acidic, a great balancing act.

The next time you think about visiting Italy, think about this. Yes, take time to visit Florence or Venice or Rome. By all means, do that. But take a day or two and go to the Cinqueterre or La Sila in Calabria. Or get out into the Tuscan countryside and take a day hike. Don’t worry if there isn’t a two star Michelin nearby, you won’t starve. And yes maybe the little albergo that you find at the end of the day might not have air conditioning, but open the window at night and breathe in the fresh, pure air and sleep like you never have. Take a moment to spend some time in the vanishing nature of Italy.


Photos from Webshots friend Ruggero, from the series, Greek Calabria, a wonderful series of photographs. Please go see and enjoy.

Re-Collecting Our Tribe

Palermo's DNA Dungeon

The 1960’s had ended. The economy was going into a tailspin, the sexual revolution was shifting into second gear, a war was killing too many young people halfway across the world, and I landed in Sicily, looking for my roots.

My Aunt Vitina and Uncle Peppino thought it would be good to take me around and visit the relatives. They started with the dead ones. Under the busy streets of Palermo another world could be found, layered, like a Sicilian Cassata. The catacomb was a cool, dark place. It was more a descent into a forgotten family museum than a neglected morgue.

Down in the cellars, families would bring their picnic baskets and have a little lunch with their departed families, an escape from the blistering heat and humidity of July in urban Sicily. One family I know kept their wine there, for it remained cool and, by custom, untouched by strangers.

Here was an Andrea, there was a Concetta, he was a priest, she was a baroness. They all rested quietly now. I asked my aunt, “Why did you bring me here first?” and she replied, “Because if we are going back, this is where we start.”

We made the procession, up onto the street and past the storefront that had once been my great-grandfather's wholesale leather business. It was from here that he sent a 15-year-old, my grandfather, to Fort Worth, Texas, in search of new sources of leather, expanding his empire to the New World. What a place Fort Worth must have been 100 years ago, with the stockyards full of cattle, sheep and pigs. How it must have seemed a world away from the busy streets of Sicily.

We went past the store to the market place, La Vucciria, for a sip of Marsala in the wine bar, casks of different types: dry, old, new, virgine, vecchio, tan, tawny and fine. My uncle handed me a cup of Fine Secco. It had a light amber taste that was sharp and refreshing. Aunt Vitina was picking up some swordfish and tomatoes for supper.

Over the meal, a few more relatives poured into the house, a two-level affair in a building off the Via Roma, in old Palermo. They were curious about the young “Americano” relative with shaggy hair and blue jeans, a rare sight in those days. Friendly and curious, they talked about my grandfather and grandmother, my father and Aunt Mary. “You should meet old Guzzetta. He has been around the world. He knows many of our relatives.” A card was handed to me by a cousin; Jorge Zito C. was printed on it. He lived in Venezuela and was visiting Palermo while I was there. There were reports of relatives in China, South America, Australia, Torino - more stories came about the tribe I was part of. “What about the Scaloras who moved to Texas?” someone asked. “Michelangelo moved somewhere between Dallas and Houston, with his family.” I wasn’t to learn about them until decades later.

Sometime after the Averna, around midnight, kinfolk started heading to bed.

The next week or so we carouseled around Sicily, visiting and photographing family and ruins. Temples and cities now lying in piles waiting for the archaeologists (and tourists) to eventually give meaning to the scattered remains of history. It wasn’t dead to me, for my uncle and aunt made it seem like part of my history. Though the family was spread across earth, understanding them seemed within my grasp. But it would become more of a mystery as I headed down into that dark labyrinth of the family over the next 40 years.

Meanwhile, the new seed had sprouted and a young lion appeared, clutching his grapes and heading out into the world. Once the cord was cut, the next generation was in play.
Wine and humanity travel upon parallel paths. We need similar conditions; we depend upon each other in a strange, exotic way. We improve one another but we don’t really need each other. Like the winemakers from southern Italy discovered (about the same time I found my family), there are strains of grapes (and families) that have been lost among the weeds and brush of history. But once uncovered, if given a little care, they can be resuscitated and brought back to a place of beauty and health. This is the story of grapes like Minedda janca and Grecanico, and families like Scalora and Plescia.

Just as each new generation embarks upon its path, a once-young boy also calls, from the past and the ruins, that our tribe, though scattered, isn’t hidden. And while, in the future, we may be able to go back farther than that day my aunt took me into catacombs, I am getting restless. I’m running out of time.

If It's Friday It Must Be Eggplant

Eggplant reminds me of Trebbiano. Neither is particularly distinctive. Both are rather ubiquitous around the Mediterranean. They often get paired with other more powerful partners, like garlic or oak. One can find many variations of either, from pureed to roasted, barrel fermented to distilled. It seems many people don’t understand either too well, and along with that goes a dearth of appreciation. But dependable and always ready are both of these workhorses in the Italian stable.

I absolutely love eggplant. It is my comfort food; it is the ingredient that I have spent more time working with in the kitchen than any other. Except, possibly, eggs. In fact, the two in combination would often make a meatless Friday meal, for the observant ones.

Looking at wine, Trebbiano has been my silent friend. Always fresh and affordable, never in fashion. Not cool enough to be a Pinot Grigio or trendy enough to be a Grillo. It missed the Riesling wave of popularity, and never quite found the audience a Chardonnay has. It rarely aspires to greatness, although there are ones out there that get a lot of buzz.
So these two jilted items, do we think they care? Do they know we think?

Last month, I brought eggplant seeds back from Italy, called Black Beauty. They grow into wonderful big bottomed plants. Today, in my garden, they shuddered under the torrent of rain that pelted their young frames. If they make it through the next 30 days, we should be able to harvest a good crop.

More and more, I am less interested in what people think Italian food and wine is. I relish the stories that have been handed down. My aunt Elvira, in Calabria, told me the story of our way with eggplant. She testified with a fire and a skillet. What she passed along to me 30 years ago, was part of our family’s culinary history. It was wonderful to see her cousin Amelia, my aunt in Texas, who also had a way with the black beauty. These two, who never met each other, knew each other through their eggplant heritage. And I was lucky to witness both of them working in the kitchen.

Likewise with Trebbiano. There was a man in Grottammare, Dottore Spinelli, who passed his knowledge along to a young winemaker in Abruzzo, Claudio Capellacci. In the locality of Controguerra, he passed the torch of his passion to the young man. It was like a lightning bolt. History of countless generations of winemaking transmitted to the up and coming adults.

Dottore Spinelli was a wonderful man. He had a Ray Bolger-like head, shaped like a grape. When he drank wine his head would turn red from the top, like a sunset. Over the evening his head would become almost beet red, and he would tell stories that had been handed down from previous generations. That was how wine was, and is, made. Without the stories we wouldn’t have the map. The road to discovery is taken with the help of the ones who went before.

One night Dottore Spinelli was coming down the hill from Controguerra in Abruzzo, back to his home in Grottammare. He was with his wife of many years. They were in their little Lancia and missed one of the hairpin turns in the dark night of the country. It was an accident that only one of them recovered from. He lost his partner and the love of his life. After that, it was only a matter of time; he lost the will to go on.

How will you be remembered? Is there a wine you have made into a wonderful masterpiece? Or a recipe that has been passed down from generation to generation? Will someone mourn your passing, missing your touch and your laugh? What will you contribute to the carousel of humanity, on this tiny little planet off in the corner of a minor galaxy? Trebbiano and eggplant, even if they are misunderstood on a daily basis, have left a legacy.