The Meltdown

Annabella and her friend Lily were waiting for us at the airport. A small car, but ample enough for the four of us with our carry on bags. I had met Lily when she was married to Roberto. That was several years back at Vinitaly. They seemed happy enough then.

Lily was somewhere between 38 and 42, a dangerous time for an Italian woman, married or divorced. She can become anxious and unsettled, like a wild cat in a cage. If married, her husband’s friends can be suspect. If divorced her ex-husband’s friends can be considered provocateurs. Fear, superstition and uncertainty, with life and the future looming ahead, all add up to a powder keg of tension and explosive emotions. Perilous times.

“The first summer a newly divorced Italian woman spends is a test of how she will spend the rest of her life,” a saying goes. Here on Pantelleria she would be removed from the scrutiny of the local people who know her in Sicily. But her inner sentinel would still be on guard. For now it appeared her primary goal was getting as tan as she had been when she first blossomed into a woman at 16.


The airport in Trapani was unavailable for landing. Umberto had a friend in the Italian military, so he called ahead to Pantelleria for the unscheduled landing. The airport in Pantelleria is busier in August than most of the year, but it wasn’t really a problem of traffic. As the private plane touched down the temperature reading outside was 38°C. It was 10:00 AM.

A short drive to the resort went smoothly enough. A little idle chatter and gossip, nothing to sink the teeth into yet. Lily was a student of music and Marsala, her father was a winemaker, mother an opera singer. We were going to taste some of his older wines along with a few others from some of the luminary winemakers of the region. Marco de Bartoli was up in Bukkuram. Salvatore Murana was harvesting his Zibibbo at Mueggen. Donnafugata’s Ben Ryè was being harvested and taken over to Khamma Fuori. So at once a busy time for some, and a time of relaxation for others. And at night everyone would gather and eat and drink and enjoy each others company.

This time of the year they don’t do too many primi's or secondi’s. But being Sicily there was an abundance of dolci; in liquid, in solid and in other guises.


And the cards games. Ever since I watched my grandparents playing Scopa or Briscola, I was fascinated with people spending time playing cards. As a young boy I thought it odd that these old people would spend what few remaining moments they had on earth in pursuit of winning a card game. While my grandparents seemed ancient to me I knew somehow that they wouldn’t always remain so. It frightened me for them that they didn’t realize their folly.

Now I see it was a way for them to relax, unwind, stop the daily chores and duties and take a few breaths. Umberto seemed to enjoy playing with Lily. Both of them were alone, and while Umberto always has this sense of self-sufficiency, someone like Lily would be a match against his hard stone; something could ignite.

Lily was in her post meltdown sequence, according to Annabella. Not interested in men, but definitely interested in parts of them. Conflicted, angry, hurt, vulnerable, cautious. A true Sicilian.

The party at Giorgio’s that Friday. I can’t tell you anything about it, I’m sworn to secrecy. I can tell you what we tasted though.

The winesMarco de Bartoli Marsala Superiore Dieci Anni- 10 years in big oak barrels with the Solera method. 50% Grillo, 50% Inzolia

Marco de Bartoli Marsala Vigna la Miccia Cinque Anni- The wine is aged in small oak barrels for 5 years. 50% Grillo, 50 % Inzolia

Marco de Bartoli Vecchio Samperi- 20 years in old barrels. 70% Grillo, 30% Inzolia

Marco de Bartoli Bukkuram Moscato d`Alessandria (Zibibbo) Passito di Pantelleria


Donnafugata’s "Ben Ryè" 2004 Passito di Pantelleria

Salvatore Murana "Mueggen" Moscato di Pantelleria

Lily also brought some of her fathers aged Marsala wines from the 1960-1970 era. Definitely Vecchio, some Superiore, Riserva and one Vergine.


Like the women in our party, the wines were all ages, in all stages of life. Young, middle-aged and elderly.
They all shared a common familiarness. There was an attractiveness that they all had, but in many cases it was like what one feels for one's mother or daughter, or one's sister. Once in a while the lover would appear. But we were in their milieu, their surroundings, their sea. I was just a carefree observer on a short break.

Cowboy Sommelier

Click on cartoon to enlarge

While Ziff and Dale work at a feverish pitch to iron out all the last minute details for the Texas Sommelier Conference, Cowboy Sommelier drives in from his vineyard in time to deliver his pronouncement.

Pole Position

Guest commentary by Beatrice Russo

Do You Wanna Dance?

Ziff and Dale invited me to lunch today. It’s Restaurant Week and they are heading off to Austin, for the Texsom conference that they are in charge of. I am staying behind. Like I said, it’s Restaurant Week and someone has to answer the dumb questions that the R.W. amateurs ask. Like last night, I heard this one: “Do you have an Italian Pinot Noir?” Yes, and I also can recommend to you a Vermentino from France, but why? Another one I heard this week (these people must have driven in from Tyler or Longview): “What’s your best Texas wine?” How about the one that doesn’t make me puke (which, by the way, wouldn’t be some overpriced Palomino-Chardonnay from a wine-bully.)

As I said, we are at lunch, kinda celebrating. One of the restaurants took pity on some of the locals and opened up for lunch. Peaky toe crab, awe-inspiring okra (you heard me) with fried green tomatoes and a whole, grilled Branzino. Family style. Me, I’m always hungry. Ziff was watching his weight and Dale was loosening his belt. They brought a bottle or two of Burgundies for fun, A Rully and a Santenay. Look guys, anytime you want to raid the cellar, I’m there for you.

At a table nearby, one of IWG’s gulag-mates was entertaining a chef. He stopped by on his way in, asking where IWG went this time. I said Fort Worth and acted like I didn't know what he was talking about. They had some cool stuff in their bag, sent over a taste of Camartina. IWG loves Querciabella. The wine was tasty, especially with the lamb.

We finished with incredible slices of Pecos melon (not cantaloupe) and some German shots that were bitter and gave me a headache. But hey, it was a 2 hour business lunch.

Nice Melons

I sent the boys on their way. They had to be in Austin, and tropical storm Erin was racing to meet them.

The gulag-mate called me over to come taste some Priorat. It had been opened about 4 hours earlier, so it tasted almost bearable. After Santenay, Sangiovese and bitters, Garnacha and Carignane were maybe too much in the same day. And it’s like 102°F outside.

The chef we sat with had a funny story about Spanish wines. I gathered he ran the wine program and the kitchen at this place where he worked, a gentleman’s club. You know, pole dancing, scantily clad girls, and plenty of smoked salmon on the buffet. And bubbly, lots of bubbly, you get the picture?

Last Call

Anyway, chef likes Spanish wine, been to Spain a couple of times lately. Likes it a lot. So he gets real sore when he goes to the tapas restaurants in town and the Spanish wine selection is lame-o, like a liquor store in some river bottom area. His line, “I have a better selection of Spanish wine in a topless bar than a tapas restaurant,” really nailed Dallas with another bulls-eye. That ain't the wind, folks, that’s the sound of the wine business sucking, this time with Spain. He was right when he said, “Buy good wines and sell them, push your customers, make them drink something besides Silver Oak or Coppola.” I know IWG says that and Ziff and Dale too. So, I’m on board, guys, even if you never see me in a gentleman’s club. I leave the testosterone and pole-positioning to the other species.

To the Moon, Alice

The Way In

Dale's mom has been talking to her son about his girth. Ziff just started a new work-out program. This could get ugly.

Fantasy Island Fever

To the bat cave, Robin

Monday Aug 13

Daniele calls me. His family has a house on the beach in Mazzara del Vallo. Ten days, only shorts and sandals, the beach and relaxing. “So how will your vacation be?” he asks. “Where are you going?” I tell him I have just been away, but when I think of that little stretch of sand and Ferragosto, my blood boils. Nothing to do with the fact that it is 104° F, where I am today.

Later in the day I get an email from Lucio. “Here it is sunny and perfect. We are invited to Giorgio’s home, Friday night, for a light dinner and some cards. He asks why you don’t join us?”



There isn't much to do on Pantelleria, but what does one need to do in August? Change the world? There’s a carnival of revolutions among the pranksters who run the world; Napoleon, Ho Chí Minh, Yeltsin, Rove, and the beat goes on.

About this time, I think, what would be the harm in catching a flight of fantasy to Sicily? One friend is in Trapani and another is in Pantelleria. Why not call up Umberto and talk him into a 5 day quick trip to catch a cure for this island fever?

Umberto, always ready and even more generous, thinks for a New York second and calls Million Air to ready the plane, a long hauler.

Tuesday Aug 14

By the end of the day the jet will harness our spirits and once again lift them towards the heavens. This is no dark dream, this is one of light and sun and water and wind. A late afternoon departure is planned.


I call Lucio and tell him to call Annabella to set three more places. “Do you folks want anything from Texas?” Annabella loves BBQ sauce from Sonny’s, so we send Tony to bring back a couple of gallons. She thinks it helps to marinate the tuna, calm down the gaminess. I think she is crazy, but wonderful. One thing- these people don’t get themselves an article in a magazine and leave out the rest of their family. They are genuine. Successful, yes, but never forgetting that they saw far, because of the shoulders they stood upon.

Sicilians are not like some of the other islanders; they have been exposed to the global community for some time now. They know the future is built upon the ruins of the past, but best to not destroy it in the present. Some of the lesser island cultures are still feeding off the milk of the golden jackals.


This is an intense time. I can only escape for short periods of time. Work is constant. Competition is relentless. The economy is unstable. The war is getting closer. A little time on a boat, by the water, with friends, a little Zibibbo and Inzolia, maybe some Cerasuolo. Fresh fish, tomatoes that taste like they are supposed to. Melons that are ripe. Uncongested space, stars, lots of stars. Cooler nights. Longer days. Leave Tuesday late afternoon, return Monday. It will have to be enough. All of Italy is taking a break. Even the unemployed ones.


They are harvesting the early Zibibbo in Pantelleria. It has been an early year in Italy for the grapes. Plenty of sun and heat, not enough hang time. But Zibibbo has grown accustomed to the cycles and will deliver. We won’t harvest, but we will witness. And swim in the cool pool overlooking the salty sea. And take naps and walks under the moonless sky looking at the waning Perseid meteor showers. Heaven on earth. Summer in Sicily, my fantasy island mini-vacation.



Bea, Arthur, take it away...

All photographs of Pantelleria by the author

Reincarbonation *

Click image to enlarge

*What happens when a light red wine goes through a slight fermentation in the bottle, and is closed out to a Spanish restaurant, to make Sangria.

Dreams In My Cellar

The Dream:

I walk into an ancient Italian restaurant where I used to work that no longer exists. Ali is standing by the salad pick-up line, in his waiter clothes. I say hello to him. Then I ask him, “What are you doing here?” He says, “What?” I say, “Ali, you died. What are you doing here?” He says, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where I am.” I move forward to give him a hug and tell him, “You’ll be back. Just relax and move through this.”

I’m still in the restaurant, now discovering that the building that went up over it (a 4-story condo complex) has kept most of the original restaurant. The owner is there with his wife, and they are running the place. All this at their current ages (he is 90). People are coming in. I think to myself that I should bring the restaurant critic here. I see the wines that are there and that the selection needs work. The interior of the restaurant is looking more Mexican-Southwestern than Italian.

I am now shirtless and shoeless and know I must get out of the restaurant because the owner will say something to me.

My friend, Ali, died almost two years ago. He was in his early 50s. Although he played soccer and didn’t smoke, he had diabetes and was overweight. He had a heart attack and died. It was Christmastime, and his parents came from Iran. They have a large and close family. They buried their son and went back to Iran.

I felt like I lost my friend and his family. We talked of going to Iran; this was before the two countries started acting like enemies. Then he dies, and the country turns into our enemy.

How would it affect me if this happened to Italy? I don’t know what I would do. My parents and their parents had to deal with it during WWII. I remember talking to my cousin Luigi in Calabria about what that was like, from his perspective. He had been compelled to join the Italian army and was captured by the Americans and sent to a prison in Tunisia. While he didn’t seem bitter 30 years later, he lost part of his youth, incarcerated for the crimes of his leader.

Ali and I often talked about Persia, one of the birthplaces of the grape. I studied the Persian people from my work in restaurants and learned some of their language, enough to back off the most macho bullies. I think the Persians were, to me, the most Italian of the peoples of the Middle East. I recognized some of the moves and traits, probably from my own DNA, the Sicilian melting pot that houses all these codes.


And, out of the blue in my dream, Ali appears and looks lost and confused. As if he hasn’t even been able to rest in peace. I know there are souls who don’t know they have lost their bodies. Was he one of them? And what was I doing telling him to relax, that he’d return?

Another friend of mine, Brad, should have died many times, but he is very much alive. Working as a war correspondent, he reported from the front lines of the first gulf war (GWI?), under the night lights, in front of the advancing Marines. And in Afghanistan and China and Albania, wherever there was a conflict or trouble, Brad was there. When he wrote me and told me he had stage 4 cancer, we stayed in touch. My wife was entering the beginning of the end of her life, which had been ravaged by multiple sclerosis. So we had a common thread, the closeness of death and the fragility of life.


After my wife died and after my friend overcame his cancer, through meditation (and with a little luck), I have managed to stay in touch with him. As with many people in my life, it seems I have to be the one to reach out over to their side. Now Brad has embraced yoga, is on his way to mastery of it, changed his name to a more appropriate yogic moniker, and passed into the fogless realm of self-realization. It’s not that we aren’t friends. It’s just that he seems too busy to be an active friend. So I talk to my dead friend while a living one is as if he had passed over.

These friends are like wines in my cellar. There are old wines that have lost their life and sit in the darkness, not knowing they will never be opened or enjoyed. There are wines that are still alive but going through a stage where they are undrinkable. Of course there are wines in there that are ready today, like some of my friends. A Carlo or a Patty or a William or a Joe. A Chianti or a Riesling or a Zinfandel or a Barbera.

Choose your wines like your friends. Enjoy them both. Forgive the friends (and the wines) if they don’t come up to par all the time. And open them all, often.



Photos by the author

Vito Power

Guest commentary by Beatrice Russo

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Importer Spotlight ~ Giulio Galli

Giulio Galli and Guido Folonari, planning for the future.

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


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


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


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

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



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

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




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

L'Atelier du Dale

Wine Decanter with Developer, from MoMa store.

Boldly Going Through Jell-O in a Tuxedo

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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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


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


A dashing and bold adventure, indeed.

Ziff & Dale ~ ' Taint Necessarily So

Click on cartoon to enlarge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bar-Bar-S-Q

Guest commentary by Beatrice Russo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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