Politicians, Interns and Comic Strips

Guest commentary by Beatrice Russo
I have a lot to do these days, but seeing as Italian Wine Guy keeps me in the loop, I will help him out, one more time. But next week is going to be a busy week for me, so I will probably hand it over to my sommelier-cartoonist buddy, Art. Later. - BR

I don’t know what's up with Alfonso, but the last two posts have led with photos of cars heading off to some other place. From what I can tell, the competitive nature of the business, coupled with a demanding schedule and, well let's just say, it's no place to look for wealth and fame.

Which leads me into a minor rant. Hillary Clinton

She should have a talk with someone like Meryl Streep. ASAP.
Hillary is way too shrill and she comes off like an angry soccer mom. I will be voting again next year, and I'd like to offer my vote to an alternative from what I have seen growing in the last 4 or 5 years. The last thing I want is an enraged momma in the White House, who spins better than a brand new Maytag. Hillary, call up Meryl Streep and invite her over for a day or two. Ask her to help you put on a new face. Stop acting like you enjoy picking up babies. And for God's sake, quit pointing to the crowd at people that you don’t even know, acting like they're some long-lost sister. You wanna make me puke, it's so phony. If you can't get real, then learn how to act more realistically. Apparently it worked for Ronald Reagan and it seems to work for the Law & Order man, Fred Thompson.

Yeah, like she'll read this sorry old blog.

Whatever. Back to my world.

I have some work lately, for a writer. I am a researcher for her. She is a food and wine writer, but also a ghost writer. So there is a lot of work and right now there is lots to do. It’s on my own schedule and I just need to get the work out within the deadline. So I have been running, doing my yoga, lost a few pounds, working on my tan and partying a little. I’m not sure I want to go into the wine business, there just doesn’t seem to be a lot of money in it. Lots of work, making money for other people, usually aging boomers.


My friend Arthur Krea and I have been taking pictures of corkscrews and decanters for his new comic strip, Ziff & Dale. It’s about this pair of wine accessories that sees the world through their viewpoint. I don’t get all of the jokes, but Art is pretty wacky. He hears a lot of things from his night job on the floor, talking to folks about wine. He’s hoping to sell the idea to the Wine Spectator or Gourmet. I told him he’s getting way too ahead of himself. Anyway it’s a fun thing to do when we have spare time together. I posted one of his below, in English and Italian. David at Italian Insight helped with the Eye-talian.


Right now we’re over at the IWG’s house leaching off of his air conditioning, feeding the cat, swimming, stealing wine and bandwidth. Hey, we were invited, and the old man is not here.

Oh yeah, the car driving away thing.

From what his sister tells me, if Italian Wine guy doesn’t get inspiration from somewhere, like magically out of the sky or the air, he goes bonkers. Or he goes looking for it, his vision quest thing. The last three times he has been to Italy, it has been on death marches from winery to winery, or the Vinitaly slog. Hey, I told him I’d go next time for him, but he tells me it’s work first and play second. So a lot of work and a little play. Yuck.

He was looking to go out West to California, but it’s hot out there and the place is ready to go up in flames so I don’t think that’s where he is headed. He told me he’d check in on the blackberry e-mail, but not to worry. Believe me, I’m not going to. He’s a big boy. Go get some down time, a little beach and waterside action, work on your tan. In the meantime I have the keys to his house and his wine closet. Me, worry?

I’m just trying to decide between the 1990 Aglianico Brigante from Sasso or the 1979 Barolo Briacca from Vietti.




Art's newest obsession. What do ya think?

From 60-0 in 18 Hours

DFW–FRA–BRI

Nine letters that can take one from the incessant rain of the Texas plains to Apulia, and an isolated beach front cottage.

A friend, Vincenzo, just bought a Ferrari, and he has offered to pick me up in Bari and take me to a fishing village in the Gargano, where another friend, a writer, has a simple little place on a private beach. No crowds, she promises. Sunny skies, clear water, no internet, no cell phones, no e-mail.

Folks have suggested that I take it down a notch for a week or so, and turn the world off. If all goes well, a plane will have a spare business-class seat for a weary pilgrim. To dip one’s toes in the Adriatic, to step off the stage of the wine-soaked killing fields and sip on a little wine, a little water, some figs, some langosto. As if in a dream. We shall see. If so, Beatrice might fill in, though she will not be compelled to do so. She has a friend, Arthur Krea, who is a sommelier and amateur cartoonist. He also wants to blog in my absence. As the millenniums say, whatever.

Working hard gets to a point where it becomes a violation of one's humanity. I have sinned and sinned big time. Driving so hard it seems I have pushed beyond others' ability to understand the sense of urgency I have been feeling. My problem, not theirs. The Italian wine sales are good, almost great, so why not celebrate this success? So what if some of the folks haven’t kept pace with the wagon train? Their problem, not mine.

The wine is piling up in the warehouses in Italy. I hear from my colleagues over there that storehouses are bulging. Something has got to give. Two areas where the hype has not kept up with the actual need are the Tuscan Maremma and Sicily. Overpriced Super Tuscans, with their expensive architecture and even more expensive consultants (some from France), have created a country club wine for the ultra rich. But are the ultra rich buying? Go to Laguna Beach, California, where the average house is a million dollars. Step into a Trader Joe’s, and watch them carrying out case after case of inexpensive Cabernet and Chardonnay, right into their $90,000 Porsche Cayennes. They are not buying the hype of the super-expensive Tuscan.

And Nero D’Avola that sells for over $10? That’s another dry well. My Sicilian cousins are telling me that some of the big houses are bulking out their estate Nero d’Avola’s to shippers in the Veneto. Too much of a good thing? Or too much buildup and down-trending demand? Word to the factors: Look away. Open your eyes when you do.

I had an agent offer me a Morellino di Scansano from the 2005 vintage this week for € 2 a bottle. Another one was offering me Grillo for € .90 a bottle and Nero d’Avola for €1.10 a bottle. 13% alcohol on all of them. The heady days of folks like Planeta and all the wannabees asking €15 for a bottle of Cabernet or Nero d’Avola are over. La comedia e' finita.

People are looking for something more timeless, more classic. They want romance, yes, but they don’t want to sacrifice their first born or sell their daughter into slavery to drink a bottle of wine with dinner.

Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!

America is a place where many in the Italian wine industry look to unload their wines at premium prices. We’ve been hog-tied and wrestled to the ground by the Amazons of Agrigento. We’ve been challenged and check-pointed throughout the pavilions of Vinitaly. They have forgotten to do the dance, lead us by the cool waters, show us some compassion, some mercy, some new moves. Maybe they should trek to India, to the ancient temples of Khajuraho. Shiva, not Coulter. Soft and subtle, not collagen and botox. Romance, not confrontation. The art of seduction and the even finer art of selling.

I know, this is not about the wine trail in Italy. The wine trail in Italy is the metaphor, stupid. Ponder that while I’m AWOL. Or not.

Looking 4 Adventure

It has been raining here for six weeks. My inner highway was pointing east, towards the Piney Woods. It was a great destination for me and a few buddies to look for some diversion. Clouds were building in the west and lingering storms were still rumbling in the east, but the road called and we had a cooler full of wine and beer. Friends were waiting at the camp, which was on stilts. It might rain, but we’d stay high and dry on the 4th of July.

I had a bottle of Garnacha from a winemaker out in West Texas. He was proud of his new red, and he was promising Dolcetto in the future. So we popped it in the back with the Buds and the Shiners, and it barely made it over the bridge at Lake Ray Hubbard.

A couple of the fellows are single. They were in search of some female companionship. One of them, named Buddy, asked me if my intern, Bea, and some of her young, single girlfriends would be there. I mentioned that she was like a daughter to me and that he should set his sights on another horizon. I could drop him off in Athens, and he could take one of those cheap buses to the border, find himself a Boys Town if he wanted to. He opted to stay with us and the beer, a sure thing. Not that his Spanish is so good, but his English could use some tuning up too, especially when it comes to attracting the ladies.

A couple of wine experts were meeting us up at the lake. I had warned them to keep their enthusiasm in check. This was a freakin’ holiday, not a master-of-wine study group. They are serious sommeliers. They wear glasses and spend a lot of time trolling the internet to talk about wine and engage in of all kinds of vinous intercourse. Today would be a pop-the-bottles kind of day. I think they got the picture. Maybe I should have sent them to Boys Town.

The Italians were promising to show up, too. They always promise, but rarely make it. First they have to find their car, and then they have to figure out how to take the highway out of town. Once they get to the trees, they get lost. They are some of the few Italians who don’t have a cell phone, so we can’t reel them in. They usually like people to pick them up and take them to the party. Wouldn’t we all like to have a driver for life?

When we get to the lake some of the folks are preparing the boats. One fellow is already sticking his Johnson in the water, which is cold. And deep, too, he jokes. He likes to embarrass his girlfriend, who is having an affair with his best friend. The friend looks like a re-incarnation of Bob Denver as Gilligan. What a strange trio.

I get a call from Bea in Dallas. The Italians have gone to the airport to pick up a winemaker from Sardegna. They will meet us out there. I tell her about the Garnacha from Texas, and she is nonplussed. We haven’t covered Cannonau yet in her Italian wine studies.

Eventually the Italians arrive, the bespectacled wine experts show up, a bunch of Bea's friends make it. Even the fire-breather makes an appearance. About 20 of us are here in East Texas, on a swollen lake, with a bunch of beer and wine and food, but no dessert.

We raked through the vittles. Chicken-fried steak with a Tuscan red from Petra in Suvereto, called Ebo. Corn and beans and barbecued chicken with a Cortese from Pio Cesare. Not quite the red white and blue. But the white was crisp and cheery and gulpable. One of the old serious wine guys almost fell in the lake he was so pleased with the match. A post-menopausal hanger-on was dogging him, trying to show him the “trail out back”. He was sticking close to the coolers.

A dear friend, who just lost her husband and has a home in the Veneto, pulled out a 3-liter bottle of Acininobili from her collection. It was intense and rich and mellow and way too much to drink. Someone took about a bottle's worth and tried to make a granita with it. Even the wine snobs thought it interesting. In 90-degree weather with 95% humidity, it was refreshing.

But we all were missing that sweet thing. We needed dessert. Yeah, we had watermelon and cherries and peaches, but we needed an iconic American fix on this day. Fortunately, in East Texas, they have DQ. It isn’t Slow Food. I don’t even know if it is food. But once in a while, you cross over the bridge into another country, and you gotta at least try some of the local flavor. It ain't great, but it’s a memory for some of us and an “esperienza particolare”for the Italians.


Afterwards, a well-tanned Sardegnan winemaker took off almost all her clothes, and jumped into the lake. Her wine is now going to be poured at two of the top restaurants in Texas. So say the sommeliers that were there.

Garnacha, indeed!


Images from PLAN59.COM

Between Two Worlds ~ The Vallé D'Aoste

A few years ago I was in Torino, visiting family and friends. A cousin suggested we take a little trip up through Ivrea to the Vallé D'Aoste. Somewhere between Italy and France, another clan, the Valdostans, guard their valleys and their unique culture. It is an interesting turn on the wine road in Italy.

From Ivrea to Mt. Blanc, the A5 highway twists though deeply torn canyons. The language is influenced by the French, though it has never been part of France. This is Italy with sauce and butter, and Italian grapes with French names. It is the smallest region in Italy with the lowest population. But this is not a drive-through kind of place.

My first contact with the wines of the Vallé D'Aoste was back in 1982. We were importing the wines of Ezio Voyat, through the Enoteca de Rham. The red, Chambave Rouge, was a hit. We had the 1961, and it sold, wholesale, for about $20. It was rich and acidic and deep and full and gorgeous. I remember it like it was yesterday.

My last bottle of '61

The white was a Passito, and it reminded me of a cross between a Vin Santo and an Oloroso Sherry. The Italians went crazy for these wines. A few clients still ask me about them. I wish we had some more.

This is a place to spend two or three days and amble the 100 miles from Courmayeur to Donnas. While summertime is a great period, the harvest time of September-October is rich with the bounty. Along the country roads, little stands display the mushrooms, the honey, the artisanal pasta, the infusions of berries and fruits with the grappa. Wood crafts are especially enticing. It is impossible to resist something like a one-of-a-kind wood turned Coppa dell' Amicizia for the famous Caffè alla Valdostana. Bring on the cool nights for this fortified treat.

This all started when I was doing research on the difference between Donnaz (now called Donnas) and Carema. Two wines from two regions, but really neighbors. Nebbiolo-based wines, though the grapes are called by other names, some say Picoutener, others say Picotendro.

This from the Italian Trade Commission: “A region wide DOC known as Valle d'Aosta or Vallée d'Aoste covers 23 categories of wine whose names are given in Italian and French, the official second language. These include the longstanding DOCs of Donnas and Enfer d'Arvier, as well as the white wines of Morgex and La Salle, whose vineyards in the shadow of Mont Blanc are reputed to be the highest in continental Europe. Valle d'Aosta has no IGT.

Valle d'Aosta grape varieties range from Piedmontese (Nebbiolo, Dolcetto, Moscato) to French (Chardonnay, the Pinots, Gamay), to the teutonic Muller Thurgau called in for mountain duty. But the most intriguing wines of Valle d'Aosta stem from varieties it calls its own. These include the Petit Rouge of Enfer d'Arvier and Torrette, the Blanc de Valdigne of Morgex and La Salle, the Petite Arvine of the varietal white of the name, the Vien for the red wine of Nus and the Malvoisie (apparently a mutation of Pinot Gris) for the rare dessert white of Nus.”

So this is an interesting region for the wine lover, Italian and French alike.

Wine Trail-From north to south
* Cave du Vin Blanc de Morgex et de La Salle (tel. 0165800331) is located in Morgex at the foot of Mont Blanc.
* Aymavilles has two wineries: Cave des Onze Communes (tel. 0165902912), which is the most important cooperative winery in the valley, offering wine sales, tastings and walks through the vineyards; and Azienda Les Cretes (tel. 0165902274), which has a cellar with a view of four castles and the vineyards.
* Aosta's main vineyard is the Institut Agricole Regional (tel. 0165553304). It is run by the monks of St. Bernard, and is known for its table wines. You can tour the cellar, the vineyards and the farm museum.
* Chambave's winery, La Crotta di Vegneron (at Piazza Roncas 2, tel. 016646670), produces Chambave wine as well as several other DOC wines.
* In Donnas, visit the Caves Cooperatives de Donnas at Via Roma 97 (tel. 0125807096) that offers tours of the cellars and wine tastings. Donnas is the only wine town in the region and is noted for its wine production.

Aosta Valley typical food:
Capriolo alla valdostana: venison stewed in red wine with vegetables, herbs, grappa, cream.
Carbonade: salt-cured beef cooked with onions and red wine in a rich stew.
Minestra di castagne e riso: thick soup of rice cooked in milk with chestnuts.
Polenta alla rascard: cornmeal cooked, cooled and sliced, then baked with layers of Fontina and a ragout of beef and sausage.
Risotto alla valdostana: Fontina, toma, Parmigiano Reggiano and butter make this one of the creamiest of rice dishes.
Seupa de gri: barley soup with potatoes, onions, seasonal vegetables, salt pork.


Festivals
JANUARY
Verrès: Historical Carnival Pageant and Parade: Thousands of people come for this delightful presentation, which recounts the inheritance disputes between the beautiful daughters of Francesco di Challand, a local aristocrat. On the Saturday before Carnival, a costumed procession winds its way through the streets to Town Hall, where the Mayor hands a gold key to Caterina, thus making her Lady of the Manor. Her first official act is to invite the crowd to celebrate in her castle. The festivities last for three days, culminating in an incredibly colorful (and noisy!) carnival parade on Tuesday.

Pont-Saint-Martin: Roman Carnival: This is probably the only place in the world where a host of toga-clad tribunes, senators, legions, guards and nymphs celebrate Carnival with a real chariot race! The origins are lost in time, but don't date as far back as the town bridge (pictured at left), an engineering feat built 2000 years ago by the imperial legions. The festivities end on Tuesday, when a straw devil is burned in effigy under the bridge.

FEBRUARY
Courmayeur: Carnival: Traditional folk dances welcome the arrival of spring during this very popular pageant, which features the bear (whose early appearance has the same meaning as our groundhog's), the mule (whose tail sweeps away evil winds), and loads of tiny mirrors (to frighten off evil spirits).

Nus: Historical Carnival: A large procession of costumed villagers follows the municipal band throughout the entire city, accompanied by colorful floats and hundreds of masked figures. Free soup for all at the end of the day.

Saint-Vincent: Children's Carnival: The festivities begin with the investiture of the Little Mayor, and for the next eleven days the grade school kids rule this spa town. Watch how you behave around them too: the squad of “little guardians” is allowed to administer fines (all proceeds are donated to charity).

MARCH
Pila: Snow Carnival

APRIL
Brissogne: Rebatta Competition. This popular local game features a large spiked ball balanced on the end of a pipe and tossed up to 600 yards.

Pollein: Tsan Competition. Local farmers probably invented this game, which resembles a rudimentary folk version of baseball.

MAY
Nus: Vien de Nus Festival celebrates the two local wines, Rouge and Malvoisie. Performances by local folklore groups are followed by a costumed parade and an outdoor banquet for one and all, featuring fritters, salami and other tasty dishes washed down with the new vintages.

JUNE
Gressoney-Saint-Jean: Festival of St. John. It begins the evening of June 23rd, when a crowd of residents and guests walk from one neighborhood to another to witness a series of bonfires. Each little burg offers its visitors wine and snacks, and the next day everyone puts on their very best Walser costumes and attends high mass to witness the blessing of the sheep.

JULY
Saint-Rhemy-en-Bosses: Ham Festival, featuring the renowned local varieties.

AUGUST
Gaby: Polenta Picnic. Everyone is invited to participate in the cooking and the eating.

La Thuile: Bataille de reines and Shepherds' Festival (Sunday after August 15th). The hillsides of the Little Saint Bernard come alive each year for this festival, celebrated by folklore groups and local bands. The crowning moment comes in the afternoon when the farmers pick the “festival queen”: the most valuable milk cow. The lucky winner gets to participate at the finals in Aosta, one of the most enthusiastically awaited events of the year in this rural region.

SEPTEMBER
Chambave: Grape Festival (last Sunday of the month). Folklore groups and local bands perform while everyone attends a huge outdoor banquet. At the end of the day the local authorities choose the year's best variety of grapes.

OCTOBER
Donnas - Grape-Harvest Festival

Gressan: Apple Festival (second Sunday of the month), featuring the local cider and a vast assortment of apple desserts.

Aosta: Bataille de reines Finals (next-to-last Sunday of the month).

DECEMBER
Aosta: International Hot Air Balloon Encounter. One entire week of events (including public excursions over the city), culminating in the spectacular (and dangerous) ascent of 13,000-foot Mont Blanc.

Almost everywhere: Living Nativity Scenes (December).

Cervinia: Torchlit Procession on Skis (December).
List of festivals courtesy of http://www.hostetler.net/

For my part, I am looking forward to the Fontina cheese festival in late autumn in the town of Aosta. The farmers will be bringing their cheeses down from the higher altitudes for this fête. Hope to see you there, with a hunk of Fontina in one hand and a glass of Donnas, or Enfer d’Arvier, in the other.

Where Have You Gone?

As folks pour into Italy for vacation, looking for that special trattoria or isolated stretch of sandy beach, what are they finding?

More and more, we turn to faraway places to re-fuel our oft-depleted enthusiasm for our wells of inspiration. People are worn out from the hustle and incessant pull for their attention. A lunch break, and 50 e-mails show up, 25 requiring some action or response. Connectivity has tied us up in a web of our own making, and one that is hard to untangle. We have our little victories, and our passion gets acknowledged once in a while. But the escape to another place, to stop the world, and step onto a little piazza for a cool glass of wine and a plate of fresh anything. Now that, for some of us, would be like hitting it out of the park.

Here’s my proposal. Don’t plan your next trip to Italy. Yes, get your plane ticket and rental car (optional), but save your fretting over where to stay and where to eat. Now don’t do this in August. But from late September on, how about arriving in Rome or Milan, stepping outside and seeing which way the wind blows you? I wonder how many of us could do that?

What’s my point?


A few days ago a colleague e-mailed me; he was in Florence and wanted to know where to go to eat. I took 20 minutes and arranged a couple of options for him and his family. Nice, not touristic. Bam, done. Later in the day, he e-mails me back, tells me to add another restaurant to my list. He found a different one, on his own. If I could tell you how many times this has happened to me. But it’s OK, Ma, because in reality, they only needed someone to get them out the door. Then Italy would take it from there.

A winemaker friend once took me to a little spot in Tuscany above the Castello Banfi. A little place whose name I don’t recall at the moment. It seemed like a deserted film set, up on a hill. Dusty, quiet. As we got to the end of the road into the village, it dead-ended. There was a dog barking and dust flying, kind of eerie. My host took me through a door that had glass beads covering the opening. No one was inside. We took a seat and listened to some Coltrane-like jazz. About five minutes passed and a gent showed up. He had been running to the market to get a few things. The meal that followed was simple but memorable.

Had this scene occurred back home, how many of us would have waited or even stayed upon entering a deserted restaurant at lunchtime? By the way the patio had a view of Montalcino worth sharing, as the accompanying picture shows.

Sharing, now that’s a whole ‘nother subject. But let me digress. If one takes a trip to Italy with this criteria - that you will stay in the level of luxury you are acclimated to - it's a virtual guarantee that you will not come into contact with Italians and the people and places that make Italy so desirable.

Tracy from Ischia laments on her blog about the wealthy Americans with their Hummer-Yachts who fear of venturing off their platform to experience a typical restaurant or see a vineyard that doesn’t look like a McMansion with vines.

I say Jump! Wander! Lose your Blackberry and find your soul. Go to Italy, open up to your instincts and round the bases. That's if you have the guts to go there and simply do it.

From: A Moron Re: Amarone

A weaver of fiaschi, not tales

There is a fellow who I run into from time to time. He likes to practice his Italian, lived there for a while. Thinks he’s an Italian. Which is about as much as I am Irish. He likes to say things he picked up in the dialect of the area, near Verona. Really funny, because the guy, well, you never know if he is telling the truth or making up a story. Really don’t mind, if the story made up is good. But seems lately he is running out of material, or memories. So he calls me up and starts telling me about this white Amarone he had when he lived over there, back in the day. Now I hear these kinds of things from time to time. The other day I got a call from a restaurauteur who was looking for a red Galestro, although why anyone would be looking for the red version of a tasteless white wine is beyond me. Oops, that was snob talk. Anyway, back to the Veneto and the white Amarone.

Italians are great improvisers. I remember a dear friend once telling another person about the process of governo in Tuscany. I had just studied it up for some kind a wine certification, so governo was on my punch list. Well, my friend had wrapped his tongue around this tall tale and he even had me going, though I knew what he was saying was dead wrong. Big deal, The Italian says, it doesn’t matter how we get to Rome, we’ll get there, we’ll get there. It might be on the Autostrada, it might be on the Salaria, but we’ll stop for lunch and eventually arrive. Kind of like this posting. We have definitely stepped off the freeway and into the rambling country road on this one.


Seems that my middle-aged white Amarone yarn spinner claims that he and a winemaker, that he worked with, made a white Amarone. I ask, thinking to keep this on the straight and narrow, if perhaps he got it confused with Recioto of Soave? No, no, that was not it, it was a white grape that went into the blend in the Valpolicella, many years ago, and it was dry and bitter and white. And it came in a demijohn wrapped in straw, like fiaschi. Now, he so believes this that he has to ride it out to the end even if it means going over the cliff. In the meantime, I am almost believing that someone could have grabbed some Vespaiolo or Garganega or Passerina and what the heck, tried an experiment. The professor told me the other day that Amarone was a mistake. By the way, the professor is a real person who is a liaison for a couple of wineries, one based in Valpolicella. I’m thinking of asking him tomorrow if he has ever heard of this white Amarone. But what does it matter, do we really need another bitter, over ripe, dried out Italian white wine, that would probably be overpriced? It was hard enough selling Trebbiano’s from Abruzzo and Coda di Volpe’s from Segesta so many years ago before the computer age.

So where were we?

If my friend is reading this (and he is, he even knows who he is), he can comment. He loves to do that, in fact I often read the comments he leaves on his web site ( No, not you, the other one, this isn’t about you) and they weave a little twilight zone of existence in those few lines that his otherwise flowery posts don’t cover. The invisible world of the internet, this frontal-lobe chit chat.

In any event, if we ever find out if there ever was a white Amarone, or not, between then, we should have something to open. A very quick note.

I recently had a pizza, with a San Marzano tomato topping that was more sweet than savory. At least they didn’t sully it with garlic. For some reason, the Brunello we had with it seemed to work. The pizza was a flat Margherita, a tad undercooked. Brunello and Pizza, why not?

Besides, the white Amarone hadn’t yet chilled.

The Sound of One Nose Smelling

Between Monterey and Big Sur there is a Zen Monastery. Guests are welcome between May and August, to hike, meditate, eat vegetarian and soak in the natural hot springs. But no electronic devices are allowed. No laptops, Blackberries, Ipods, none of that sort. It’s a great place to turn the world off. Let it go. Give it a rest.

It’s a fantastic opportunity to tune up one’s senses, hearing, sight, smell. Lately, there has been a bit written on the wine Supertasters, reviewers and critics. There is also a strain of Super Smellers, those whose olfactory sensitivity is in uber-drive to the rest of the folks on the planet. It is something I am fascinated with. As a child, my father proclaimed I was a nose that a little boy grew around. It got better as I grew up.

Some of my high school classmates called me eagle beak, banana nose, the Schnozz; those are a few I haven’t forgotten. But I am not bitter. I have had the last laugh, My heightened sense of smell has helped me in my career and passion, on the wine trail.

Almost 20 years ago I read a book, Perfume, by Patrick Suskind. In the book a young man was born who had an enormous capacity for scent. The author described, in almost excruciating detail, the level at which this character could perceive aromas in his world. He was being trained as a perfume maker, and would be considered the greatest in the world (it’s a fictional account). But one passage, in which this boy could smell certain smells from blocks away, blew my mind. For the next few months I would sit in a sales room, a restaurant, an airport, and open my sense up to “see” what I could pick up. It was incredible. Perfumes, body scents, fabric, food, combustion, rotting, vegetal, they were all there. I could pick up a perfume from 20 feet away. My game would be to try and guess the maker. I got pretty good.

At another Zen monastery many years before, on an assignment, a monk warned me of getting attached to any sense, part of their training. At the monastery in Big Sur, while it is a bit freer in allowing one to open up to that kind of experience, one is still reminded to not become too attached to any worldly thing. I copy.

The walk to the coast, through the pine forest, with the resin of the tree and the balmy breeze off the ocean, reminded me of an afternoon in Iraklion, on the island of Crete. A run this week, in my neighborhood, picked up a scent of some kind of vegetation that transported me back 40+ years, to my model car days. Some resin, a dusty aroma and bam, I was 12 again. Too bad I didn’t have those 12 year old legs to get me up the hill I was facing.

There are exercises to heighten you sense of smell. And you can prepare your nose to become more aware and sensitive to the aromas around you.
Take a look at this picture, what kind of smell does it bring to you? A hot, fresh, steaming fried apple pie, with cinnamon. You’re sitting in your aunt’s parlor, and she brings a plate of these fresh from the kitchen miracles. What do you smell? How old are you when you recall this smell? Where in the world are you?


Or how about this one, the fish market in Venice? It could be one of many sites around the world, summer is starting, it’s 11 O'clock in the morning, starting to get hot. There are sardines and anchovies nearby, the swordfish and the tuna are also close. They were swimming in the ocean in them morning and now they sit and wait for their transformation. What do you smell? Is it pleasant, or do you have a problem envisioning the aromas in you mind? At this point, you know, its all in your mind.

And that is really an important part of the olfactory sense. We humans like to enlarge our experiences. We aren’t as lucky as the beagle, whose nose has about 200 million scent-receptor cells. A human's nose has about 5 million. The beagle is the super-smeller. We can, however, elaborate with words.


Want to learn more about wine? Grow roses, or visit rose gardens. I have a few that I have gone back to over the years, this one from my alma mater in Santa Clara. I have learned as much from the roses as I did from some of my professors. Honestly.

This is not a big mystery; the wine trail is filed with teachers all along the way. One only needs, from time to time, to turn off the electronic devices and step out into the world. It is one of the ways to learn how to become a super-sleuth in the scent sector. Or you could check into the Zen monastery for a stay.



Further reading
The Nobel Prize for mapping the sense of smell

That Makes Scents - An olfactory lab activity

Keep on Trocken'...

Sec on the Beach
Cool white wine in a warm climate is a great pleasure. While I like fruity Rieslings and dessert wines, right now I am looking at dry wines, the seccos of the Italian landscape.

Picture the Southern Italian scene, Maratea in Calabria or Gargano in Puglia. Fresh seafood, cool water, warm sand. Primitivo doesn’t sound too good at that moment. I’m looking for a bone dry white to soak up the heat. Something for the shoreline of the mind. Delicate, lithe, tanned and toned.



Now We’re Cooking
Inland, perhaps the Sila forest or the Marche foothills, where the climate is a little cooler. Still some fine access to the fresh fish off the coast. There, a white still sounds good, perhaps a Pecorino or a Mantonico.
Pulling a few fresh vegetables from the garden, zucchini or arugula, and making a salad with a nice filet of tuna or chicken. A Grechetto from Umbria or an Ansonica from Tuscany would fit the bill. Refreshing, light and dry. For the next few months that is my mantra. And try to escape the heat.

Back to the Adriatic coast, a few other wines to consider. The lowly Trebbiano I have already written about. It is already in the refrigerator. Add a little Verdicchio, perhaps from Jesi or Matelica. While the Trebbiano is drier and more acidic, the Verdicchio still qualifies.


Clean Country Air
Popping up to the Veneto on the way to Trentino and Alto Adige. One of my favorites is a blend from Maculan, the Pino and Toi. I’m looking at a certain wavelength, what the Germans call Trocken, and the three grape blend of Maculan gets on the boat. Clean, hillside vineyards, refreshed by the Alpine breezes, maintained by Lake Garda.

Muller Thurgau and Sauvignon in the Trentino and Alto Adige also will be spending the summer under the Texas sun. With some of the highest elevated vineyards in Europe, the white wines have an allure, a quiet, seductive quality in hushed tones that echoes across the valley, making the Austrians jealous.


The Great Escape
There’s a quality of these wines that didn't exist 30 years ago. Maybe it’s the yeast, maybe cold maceration, or perhaps just the availability of refrigeration, for the fermentation tanks and the containers that ship them over. We warm the planet so our wine can be cool. Always a trade off.

I can get lost sampling the whites up in the northern hills, and the foods that go so well during this long, hot season here in the Southern Plains.



Photo Finish
This all started with a German wine that was opened recently. It was a simple white, Riesling, but dry, Trocken.

The Vinho Verde from Portugal was also at the starting gate, bucking to beak lose and sprint. Now it’s a simple, but long race to October, to get through the hot muggy summer that just commenced.

While the Italians will be flocking to the coastlines, drinking all manner of wine, I’ll be thinking about them as I polish off a bottle or two of the new wave of great white wines, from the wine trail in Italy.