Southern Islands in Spring

Like the sparrow hawk family that returns every year to the trees in my yard, so my soul flies off to Islands in the South. The days lengthen, the breeze warms, and now a light sweater will do instead of the heavy coats we have been armoring ourselves with during the dark winter days.

Naples was my first time to hop over to an island. That time it was an overnight affair and the island was Sicily. Unbeknownst to me I was backtracking the steps my grandparents had taken when they left Sicily to go to Naples and then to America, 100 years ago.

Naples fascinates me, the food, the wine, the erotic decay. One of the finest archeological museums in one of the most illogical of towns. Pizza that people try to emulate all over the world. Tailors who are unmatched for their craft and artistry. And there are the beautiful women, both the Italian, and the American, who flock to nearby areas of Positano, Ischia and Procida.

I am fascinated with the wines of the region. It was here that the indigenous varieties had their springboard back from obscurity and endangered status. Families like the Mastroberardino’s, who clung resolutely to their instincts and gave us all a gift of wines from grapes like Aglianico, Fiano and Greco.

But today I want the wind in my face and the salt water misting our linen clothes. Outside is where the life in the South is lived, whether it is playing or eating or sitting at an outside table having coffee or playing scopa.


I had a note this week, from a young reader, who wrote:
“I have been reading your latest posts and think you are complaining too much. I like to read the posts that have passion, but it sounds like you just want to sound critical, as if that lends authority to your voice. Please, once in a while, come back to the wine trail in Italy and inspire us with your tales.”

The young reader was right. We have gotten off the wine trail, just a little. In the next few weeks, there will be more emphasis on getting back on. There is some travel being planned. During that time, I probably won’t have the connection to post. In any event, posting three times a week for the last two years has been quite a lot. Along with getting back on track, I must also drink from the well, drawing inspiration.

Thank you for your patience and continued visits to On the Wine Trail in Italy. There are more folks coming to the site and I feel the responsibility to not let anyone down.

Martha Graham said it best when she said, “I am only in competition with that person I know I can become.”

Happy Spring and Easter Holiday.

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

Photos by Vittorio

Carbonara Here We Come

Oh where, oh where do we start? Put me down for one Holy Week rant, and let’s get this thing going.

It started out in San Francisco. I was with a winemaker and his importer having lunch at a fashionable Italian-styled spot. The place was buzzing with winemakers, importers, industry hacks, the whole lot. The wines were spot on, I was half-expecting Dr. Vino to saunter in wearing a “No Spitzer, No Spoofalated” T-Shirt. That would have been apocalyptic enough.

When the server asked us what kind of water we wanted, and then grimaced when I suggested something “local”, I reckoned this would be a lunch in search of a kicker.

And then I bit into one of three small pork meatballs ($15 – sans pasta). There must have been $2 worth of salt in that bowl of polpette. The toilet back at the hotel was broken, so I figured I’d probably be in for an interesting night. Salt- water - more water, a long night.

We finished with a bitter espresso, “They need to clean the machine,” one Italian remarked.

Somewhere between lunch and dinner I was staring out at Alcatraz when my phone rang. Southern Wine and Spirits had announced they were setting up shop in Texas, and a very worried sales rep was asking me what was going on. Why ask me? I would be the last to know. The very last one.

Still in the City and dinner plans had been made. Again at a very trendy Italian-styled dinner spot. We arrived early and were asked to stand outside, away from the empty tables and seated diners. I ran down the street and bought my mom a loaf of sour dough bread. Buying time. Never, ever to get any respect from any quarter.

Finally our lottery ticked paid off and we were six, squeezed into a table for four. And we should be happy to have been lifted out of the mire and into the land of the chosen ones. At a table nearby I spotted two women enjoying their night out and each other even more. San Francisco, how that city can take such a common occurrence and raise it to a level of curiosity, only to have it veer off the plastic-fantastic expressway into some field of visceral abandon.

Back to the table, and heated conversation among food and wine ‘sperts, when plates arrive. Again, a dish saturated with saline excess. Doesn’t anyone in these upscale kitchens taste their food? Are they all smokers who cannot imagine a palate that looks for other flavors, other pleasures? I was thankful for high acid wine from Italy, to counter the constant cauterizing my tongue was enduring from the American youth in the kitchen. Pigato saves the day.

A day later, in chichi Hollywood, again one of the hot spots of Italianista food Meccas. We sit, we order, we’re served, and again I feel like I am working the salt mines in Trapani. What in hell is going on in these highly regarded kitchens in California? I haven’t taken in this much salt since I spent a summer body surfing the rip tides of Newport and Huntington Beach.

A week or so later, back in the saddle. Home for a few weeks. Again, importers making their visits for meetings, working on the wine lists, pressing palms, the blocking and tackling of the daily business. Here we wouldn’t be assaulted with the common white seasoning. Here is where we’d get head butted with the black pepper grinder. Surprise again.

We go into another swank Italian-styled spot. Hard to get into. Cool. Utre’. I decide to take a ride down memory lane and order Roman inspired things. First, Carciofi alla Romana. I’ve spent time in Rome, hunted food in the ghetto. A plate of what looks like deep fried palmetto bugs arrive sitting next to a milky looking liquid that resembles nothing I want to put in my mouth. What happened to my artichokes Roman style? It looks like it made its way here via the Colosseum and some gladiator’s trifecta.

And then the Carbonara arrived. Now, many years ago I was a waiter in a restaurant that had table service. I wore a tuxedo. Wore three of them out. And I wasn't a "tuxedo" person at the time. I must have made a couple of hundred Carbonara’s. When someone ordered it, instead of the Fettuccine Alfredo, I was so pleased with them that I would prepare their Carbonara as if it were their last meal. So when a huge bowl arrives ($18) and there appear to be four, maybe five bites, I am a more than a bit disappointed. First bite is cold. Second bite is warmer, but not acceptable. I motion to the server to take my plate and warm it up, per favore. He looks at me and asks me “Just that small amount?” I answer, “It isn’t my fault it’s small, please warm it up.” He walks away, peeved that I interrupted his suck-up session with a local celebrity chef who made it to the finals of Top Chef. She was his reason for being here, not some old fart who made a gazillion Carbonaras, correctly, and was griping about it being cold. After he had eaten most of it. Yeah, whatever.

Waiter-gush boy goes back to kneeling at the table of the cute young chef-as-customer. Micro-warmed up plate of Carbonara (now 2 bites left) comes to counter and is set down. Managers, runners, pizzaoili saunter around the orphan bowl. My waiter is now entering a coma over his rapture with 15-minutes-of-fame-celeb-chef. I will never see the two bites ($9 worth) in a warm state. Finally, a manager figures it out, with a little hand waving from our table.

He brings it to our table and asks me, “Just that small amount?” I answer, “It isn’t my fault.” Now go away and guard the espresso machine, make sure no one turns it off before the restaurant is closed, like the last time when I was there with three very disappointed real Italians.

The two remaining bites of Carbonara were D.O.A. I managed one bite and then surrendered. There would always be Nutella and grappa at home if I was more hungry than tired.

What is it with dessert that makes servers so damn happy? It’s like a ticket taker on a train with one more stop before he gets off for the night. Happy, happy, joy, joy. Give me a break. Several espressos are ordered and then I understood why the machine should have been turned off. Weak and bitter, like this rant.

Two more weeks till Vinitaly. I can hardly stand it.

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

Still Driving West

There are changes in the air: A little morning fog, a bounce in the breeze and the path of the sun in the morning. Spring is near. While my mission is Italy, my mind veers towards California. No it isn’t about the wines, it’s something else. Maybe it’s the way the place welcomes in a new cycle of the season; maybe it’s my Sunday nostalgia creeping back in. I don’t know.

Over the past week we’ve had a lot of wonderful Italian wine, from Franciacortas to surprisingly fresh Sangiovese-Cabernet-Merlot blends from Tuscany. I know, I said Merlot. Live with it. Last night a delicate Grillo and tonight a fresh Gaglioppo, so while the flesh is being drawn across the sky to the West, we’re anchored in the lake of Italian wine.

I am concerned that everything is careening out of control. The war, the economy, consumerism, denial. And still we pass one another on the street gunning our engines like it’s 1961 and gas is 23 cents a gallon, not $4.00 and climbing. Were driving ourselves over the cliff and taking everyone with us.

What started out as a highway to the West became a mania for us under this affliction of the internal combustion engine.

Multiply that by all the boats and planes and trains, moving products all around the world so that we can have prosciutto from Parma and capers from Pantelleria and Zweigelt from Bressanone, it all gets a little overwhelming.

Will Italian wines someday be only a distant memory? Like the ones I have of a California that exists no longer?

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

Backwards and in High Heels

A man and a woman sitting at a table, talking. Obviously some kind of wine dinner. The man has a familiar face. In fact, he has been a major force in the world of wine these past 20 years. But who is the woman he is talking to, is she famous too? Or even in the wine business? Maybe a fan? Or the wife of a collector?

How about this: Her actions move more wine in the world than his. And nobody but a few of us knows about her. Oh yes, he’s famous and influential, he’s a superstar. But she does all he does and more, backwards and in high heels.

There a legions of women nobody knows, but who make all the difference in the world. And their numbers are growing. They are all ages. And they are a force to be reckoned with.

At last month’s Symposium for Wine Writers in Napa’s Meadowood, the room was filled with bright, intelligent women, asking questions, taking notes, making their mark in a traditional male dominated world. I have witnessed it for decades now. Men pass their power to their buddies in the form of a wink or a secret hand shake, behind closed doors, in back rooms and at industry gatherings. But more and more, in seminars, in classrooms, in sales rooms, I see women filling the ranks. Yet we still sell like the good ol’ boys taught us.

This week, from the Italian wine trail, Francesca Moretti joined our door-to-door activities in presenting and selling her wines from Tuscany and Franciacorta. Francesca is in her early 30’s, and has a long life ahead of her in which she will see many more changes in her direction. I see a confident, stable, ready, willing and able person like her making the future of the Italian wine business so much more interesting. And fun.

But it isn’t just at the ownership levels. We must have that commitment from the Italian families, sending their sons and daughters to the New World, preaching the gospel of Sangiovese and Aglianico. We also need our home-grown ones too.

Look at their faces, they are ready. And this is a cause for rejoicing. I know how hard it is to try and sell in a “man’s world.” It’s even harder to do that when it is no longer relevant. It isn’t your father’s one-sided world anymore.

Looking around a sales room, I see the daughters I never had, filling the chairs. They have chosen wine. And they are so good at it.

Sit before someone like Karen MacNeil, who worked her way through the “clubhouse” to the top of the game. She has something to say. We have something to learn from her. She’s not through with us yet. Not by a long shot. All the young writers, from California to Washington, to New York to Texas, and all points in between, longing for their ideas to be aired, their voices to be heard. People like Karen, who paved the way for them with every drop of blood she gave, in the struggle to climb her mountain and plant her flag for herself. And for those who come next.

Gents, those who listen and those who care, take a moment and look around you. The next time you taste a Chianti or a Gavi, if there is a woman nearby, engage her, talk to her about the wine you are tasting. Let her tell you about it, what she is smelling, tasting, feeling. You’ll learn more about that wine than any review can impart to you. It could be your mother, your wife, your partner, your daughter, your sister, your aunt. Turn them loose and open your mind to hear what they have to say about it. This is the future coming at you. They are not going to sit on the benches and merely be spectators anymore. They are not going to be advocates for your tastes and your wishes anymore. They are the new force of nature in the wine business. And they might just save us from this smug little corner of hubris we’re backing ourselves into.



Besides, who among us cares to dance alone in the dark?



[ Blog Post # 300 ]

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

The Life We Chose

When I saw Giulio tonight he looked more tired than his 35 plus years. He had been in San Francisco, Los Angeles and San Diego in three days, then back to San Antonio and rural Boerne for a country wine dinner. Before he made it to Dallas his entourage flew to Oklahoma City for a wine dinner. He brought with him Francesca Moretti and Roberto Barbato, an owner and the commercial director for the Terra Moretti Company.

Everyone was tired, including myself. But here we were at an Italian restaurant. Showtime.

Inside the swank little spot on the edge of Dallas’ Park Cities, one of the wealthy safe deposit box neighborhoods, we were led to our table in front of the pizza oven. Front row and center. We passed by a client and one of the friendly competitors. The competition was everywhere, these days. Nowhere to hide.

Chef Jules seemed to love us and that was all we needed, after thousands of miles making flights, renting cars, late nights with clients and winemakers. Yes, this is the life we chose.

This isn’t just about Giulio. He is an archetype. It could be about Andrea or Lionello or Paolo or any number of people in this boat, all of whom have a similar life. All who have chosen it or have had it chosen for them.

No complaining, we are all looking somewhere over the rainbow for our little piece of the Emerald City. Or Kansas.

Giulio had a bottle of Francesca’s Tre Bicchieri winner, 2004 Petra, accompanying him on his recent travels. Roberto brought it from Italy in his luggage. And here we were, finally, opening the wine to try and with luck to enjoy. Francesca apologized with her big brown eyes, excusing the wine for its frequent altitude adjustments. But even though she would have preferred we let the wine settle for ten days, it opened up like a champ and was brilliant.

Plates started appearing at the table, and here we were again. No this wasn’t San Francisco, nor was it Hollywood. It wasn’t Verona; that was still a few weeks off. This was Highland Park and the place was Nonna’s. And it was just perfect for all of us tired wine ambassadors.

Chef came over and offered a pleasant welcome. Here’s a young one, with the future waiting for him and what he has to offer a hungry world. Italy is just beginning her ascent into American mainstream culture and the wine from Francesca with the food of Jules is where it is going. No cell phones or computers needed to figure that one out.

Roberto surprised everyone by ordering a second chocolate dessert. He is mistaken for an Italian movie star in elevators. Women love him. Everyone loves Italians. Life is good.

Tomorrow we tackle Texas BBQ and Patric chocolate cake.


Just leave the espresso machine on in the window.

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

Taking It All In

Hotel Miramar Fairmont ~ Santa Monica, California
Gambero Rosso Road Show

I was strolling around the banquet room, tasting white, and then red, wines. We had just finished our seminar, a very adventurous wine tour across Italy. There were experts on the panel and experts in the audience. I was in my observer mode, eyes at the camera screen, looking for the definitive shot which would say, “Ah here’s the expert.” Unfortunately the camera memory ran out rather quickly. There were so many experts around me.

A few days later I was looking at a speaker's bio for a wine fair in New York. One of the speaker’s curriculum vitae noted that he was “the foremost authority on Italian wines in America.” Those words exactly. I read it again. Was he really? It seemed I was finding foremost authorities all over the land, out West and back East.

Back in the room in Santa Monica, as I sampled the wines, I started listening to the conversations people were having with each other. It split into two camps; the Italians and the Americans. Both with different points of reference. This was getting confusing to me. There were experts, everywhere.

I recalled Vinitaly with all the knowledge and interest in Italian wine, in such a concentrated time and space. I was starting to hyperventilate, thinking about the insignificance of one’s life in this area. I should have gone into gardening, or law. Or maybe forestry. As to Italian wine expertise, no, I would never make it to the mountain top.

And then there was the travel advice I had just given to a young bicyclist in Napa Valley. She spends three months a year training in Lucca. She asked me if I had any special tips or places that she shouldn’t miss. I fired off an answer modified from one told to me by a photographer. I told her to pay special attention to what it right in front of her; the Italy that she is witnessing in the present moment is just as good as it gets, and if one could stay in the now she could get a feel for the real Italy. Or words like that.

How about if I took my own advice, with regards to expertise? Let’s look at this, shall we?

What would one accomplish by being the foremost authority on Italian wine? Would that mean one knew everything there was to know about it? There is a computer somewhere that holds all that information. What about sensing trends and being an influence on the changing state of Italian winemaking? That would also be part of that omniscience one would need to be considered one of the giants in the field. I cannot imagine only one person being able to fit into those shoes. Maybe six, or twelve or twenty experts, but one? Count me, and anyone that I know, out.

Then there is the passion in the pursuit. Enthusiasm is not an elective in the building of the pyramid of perfect knowledge. But there was more than one Pharaoh, one Caesar.

Taking a break from the process of analyzing this, I crawled back into my mortal shell and walked around the pavilions of the past Vinitalys' I had been to. One of the first ones, in 1984, I remember seeing an elderly Italian man, a sommelier, who everyone seemed to love and respect. For years I saw his name in trade publications, occasionally spotting him in an important dinner or tasting in Italy. Then he passed away. Did all that knowledge and ardor pass with him? Did he have acolytes? Are they now foremost authorities on things Italian?

I remember feeling overwhelmed about the prospect of never “getting” Italian wine to a point where I could look back and say to myself, “I have arrived.” First the language would be a barrier; my Italian couldn’t open certain doors. I daresay that would also be the case if I had been born in Italy. But there were so many opinionated people, some who have spent many years in the study of this Italian wine thing.

How would I reconcile this with respect to my significance to this matter? And why was it so darn important?

Honestly, I don’t think I ever will. But I am getter better acclimated to accepting that there is a place for many of us at the table.

I am saying this because there are people that ask me how I ever got to this point where I could teach and talk and sell Italian wines in the way that I do. They seem to think it is so daunting, that they will never be able to grasp it.

But I ask any of you reading this, who has those concerns, to put them aside, like I have. Take off your blinders of apprehension and slowly open your eyes to the light. Take a deep breath. And listen. This is where you are. This is where we all are. It isn’t perfection, but it is a good place to start and to be. You will forget many things and you will learn many more. But we aren’t building a rocket ship to the perfect spot in the universe. We are merely living life on a small planet with some wonderful smells and colors and flavors. And people.


And that's just gotta be good enough.

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

Gambero Rosso Road Show @ 600mph

The Italians have taken to the road with the Gambero Rosso Tre Bicchieri tasting in New York and San Francisco and the Road Shows in Los Angeles and San Diego. What are they doing here? And why are we following them?

In part, I wanted to see some of the winemakers (the relationship thing) and to participate in some of the educational seminars. With Italian winemakers and marketers I believe it is important to stay in touch with them, to see where their hearts are beating and to get a sense of the moving target that is the state of the Italian wine. Yeah, and, it's my job.

I passed on New York this year and opted for San Francisco. It is interesting to note that when the winemakers are in New York, the atmosphere is more highly charged, a little more buttoned down, while on the West Coast the style is a little more casual and easygoing. Maybe it is because San Francisco has a more feminine side to it than New York. San Francisco allows those who come to the city to be more comfortable in their own skin. It is an easier city to immerse oneself in quickly. And for those winemakers who do make the trek, we get to see a different side of them, and they get to experience a part of the USA that is more akin to their Mediterranean ambience. Plus, I'm a sucker for red balloons.

Restaurants in SF – We had two meals, one at A16 and one at Delfina, both fine examples of a more settled style of Italian food that is current in the city. One major complaint in both San Francisco and Los Angeles: the kitchen needs to taste their food from time to time. Too dadgum much salt. And wine prices are creeping up on the wine lists too. However their selections are different and wonderful and I just love to hear them moan about how backwards their area is in relation to other places. Wahhhh. Get me a recycled Kleenex, please.

I’m on the run and moving fast, the plane is waiting. So this will be a quick read with more to follow.

Ligurian wines are alive on the West Coast. We sampled Pigato and Vermentino in SF and LA. I wasn’t too excited about seeing them for $75-85 a pop, considering you can pay about $4-6 euros a bottle ex cellar. What they are getting though are real wines and, hey, gas out here is $4 a gallon and climbing.

The Gambero Rosso Tre Bicchieri show in SF? They should call it 3-bicch and 2-red, for we tasted a lot of 2 glass (red) wines, as well. So the event has transformed. I am not objecting; think the 2 red glass category offers value and sometimes interesting glimpses of where things are going. One producer was showing a tre-bicch Sauvignon Blanc that sells for $45 in the stores in SF. We’re approaching Dagneau country. Don’t know if they'll get me down that road in Collio.

I did manage to put on my Sherlock Holmes hat and try to suss out the real wines that hide amongst the superstars. I got an email from Alice F; seems she was disappointed in the NY show. I had to look hard and found a few. Not as many as I would have liked, though. More on that later.

LA was a different story. While escaping the snow flurries in North Texas, I huddled in a dark room with 25 wines and a few experts to talk about some of the unique wines coming out of Italy. Sicily is struggling with their fame and their direction. Piedmont and the North are a machine, but it seems they cannot get their pricing to reflect what most people can afford. There are 400 people in the USA who make over $100 million a year, known as the Fortunate 400. It seems many of the reds from Piedmont are targeted for that group. I’d wish them luck, but they’d just think I was being a smartass.

Central Italy, come’ va? Encouraging. The Marche wines, both red and white, await their explosion in the marketplace. Sagrantino is climbing higher, hoping to borrow a few buyers from Brunello. Montepulciano d’Abruzzo is showing different styles and is evolving into an area that will continue to have this multi-faceted look to their wines, from Masciarelli’s homage to sun, oak and horsepower to Valle Reale’s firm, steady, serious progression to serious world class wines. And then there is Illuminati. Now Gambero Rosso calls Dino Illuminati the Grand Old Man of Abruzzo. Holy Mother of God, they almost buried him with that description. Hang in there Dino, we're not done with you yet.

Last night we closed down Osteria Mozza with the sopranos, the starlets and some old sidekicks from New Orleans, complete with Grappa shooters. Just like I remember from Decatur Street in the Quarter, when I was much younger, and had a quicker recovery time.

OK, that’s enough for now. More to come.

Anybody want to guess who this is? Hint: he isn't in the wine biz

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

ERUDITESWINE

I felt like a child again. Everywhere I turned, there was someone chastising me and the world I lived in. After an adult lifetime of work, I was being charged with representing evil. They even used the “M” word (to an Italian, that is the ultimate slur, to belong to an organized criminal enterprise).

Then I decided to try the game from my accuser’s perspective, work up empathy for their pain and suffering.

It happened when I was in California last month, there were some things I forgot to bring back. A week in wine country and how could I not remember to snag a few gems for the old homestead’s larder? This would be the perfect opportunity to put my plan into action. I would make up for the time lost, and late one evening I got online, credit card at the ready. I was going to go around the system, make a break from the conventional, go hog wild.

I had scoped out what I wanted to buy. There were pleasant memories from past transgressions of interstate commerce. Smoky flavors, mellow wood, something exotic, not your usual Limousin. There was a firmness to the body, a bold expression of flavors, with comfort and the forbidden, interwoven into a burst of flavor that I could not forget. In fact, this one was hard to shake off. I just had to get me some more. All the years of traveling, immersing myself in Italian counterparts had me all but renouncing where I had come from, as if I were in front of Savonarola at the Inquisition.

But now I was in outlaw mode. This would be no whimper of rebellion. I would stand tall with the other revolutionaries who were rejecting the accepted norms or procurement. How would this put me in the standing of my industry colleagues? Or the Italians who had fed me the finest from their artisanal confines? It might put me at risk, but it was a chance I just had to take.

I navigated on to the website, a thriving business located in California. There, a menu of selections with descriptions and sizes sent my head spinning. I could envision the pleasure at the table with some of these prized finds, my mouth watered at the mere thought of it. Was this euphoria from the forbidden fruit or was I entering an altered state over my turn to lawlessness? I don’t know and I didn’t care, I was going all the way.

I put my order in and proceeded to the online check out. But I kept getting sent back to the previous menu, only to enter the information again. After three or four times, I started to worry. Was my credit card invalid? Had someone hijacked it again? This only made me want it more, to embrace the dark side. Friends had told me there would be a thrill, but I kept getting knocked back. What was going on? I was befuddled.

I had heard that it was difficult getting what I wanted across state lines, but others had told me they did it, they were lawbreakers. I wanted to be a lawbreaker too. I wanted to be a rebel with a cause.

And then I saw a red notice pop up on the screen. AVAILABLE IN CA ONLY, it announced. I was busted, unable to break away from the conventions of tradition. Trapped in an Old World Order.

What was I to do?

And then I remembered. I could have it shipped to my mom in Southern California and pick it up the next time I was out there. Or if I needed it sooner, perhaps she could break the law too, and send it to me.

I decided to pick it up next time I went to visit. After all, moms love to cook for their sons. Who doesn’t love an old-fashioned country breakfast of lacy fried eggs, biscuits, fresh California orange juice and the ultimate jailbait, mahogany smoked bacon?

This time it isn’t wine that is illegal to ship over state lines. It’s bacon. And I am “utterly remorseless and resolute” with “brazen disregard” and cultivating a “culture of lawlessness” over my dilemma. It’s enough to make one want to go after the NPPA Pork PAC with a vengeance, for they stand squarely in the path of a free market economy.

This is the United States and the year is 2008. Time to let me make my own decisions about the bacon I eat and where I get it.

Are you with me or agin’ me?

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

Battle of the Bottles

It all started out innocently enough. The Italian-American Chamber of Commerce wanted to square off in a friendly competition with their French-American counterparts for a night of food, fun and frivolity. Would I help arrange the Italian side of things, with regards to wine?

I am such a sucker. I had envisioned a Mr. Rogers kind of evening. It would be convivial, and everyone was guaranteed a good time.

So, in good faith, I start emailing the French folks, eliciting their ideas about how we should pair the wines, which would be served blind, one from each country, to complement food courses. My Gallic counterparts were very busy at the time, and we couldn’t get ourselves coordinated. I chose the Italian wines based on the parameters outlined, which were: The wines should retail for under $20.

With that, I headed off to a week in Napa to go to my writing symposium.

In the middle of the week, I got an email. I was in a writing exercise class and the rain was pounding our little Arts and Crafts inspired classroom. It appeared the French had chosen more expensive wines. The question to me was, “What shall we do?”

What could we do? They had chosen their wines, and we had chosen ours. If their more expensive wines showed better, then we could always plead that they had exceeded the agreed-upon price limit. And if the Italians showed better, we could always rise triumphant in that our wines were better quality and more reasonably priced. I went back to my soggy classroom feeling as smug as a Frenchman.

Back in Dallas, the day of the event arrived and I hurried back from a class that I was teaching at the University in Denton, about 35 miles away. At the appointed restaurant ("It needs to be neither French nor Italian, it must be a neutral space.”), I arrived to make sure the wines were all in place. The restaurant was nearly empty save a server or two and the Italian-American Chamber of Commerce delegate. No Frenchmen in sight. We helped to clean glasses, wrap the bottles in aluminum foil, both Italian and French, and open some of the reds to let them breathe.

An hour or so before the official start of the event, I was getting anxious, for at this point we had prepared much. Still no Frenchmen in sight. My expert counterpart was probably at work, making lots of money, while I was polishing his glasses. And then they would appear and ask why things were not set up properly. That was the film playing before my imagination. It wouldn’t be right, and it would all be the Italians' fault.

Finally they started arriving 10 minutes before the event. They walked in; we made nice and set about the battle of the bottles.

Reception
"Calixte" Cave Vinicole de Hunawihr, Crémant d'Alsace Sparkling
Rotari Talento Brut, Trento DOC (metodo classico)

First Course
Field Greens Tossed Lightly in Walnut Oil
Topped with Walnut Crusted Goat Cheese Croutons

Wines
Vincent Girardin, Emotions de Terroir Blanc 2004
Illuminati “Costalupo” Controguerra DOC
(Trebbiano/Chardonnay blend)

Second Course
Pan Seared Scallops Wrapped in Apple Smoked Bacon

Wines
Domaine des Baumard, Savennières 2004
Santi “Solane” Valpolicella Classico Superiore Ripasso 2004

Third Course
Beef Tenderloin with Wild Mushroom Demi-Glace

Wines
Guigal, Crozes-Hermitage Rouge 2003
Coppo Camp du Rouss” Barbera d’Alba 2004

Fourth Course
Assortment of: Mascarpone Stuffed Dried Apricot; Roquefort Stuffed Fig; Milk Chocolate Mousse in Dark Chocolate Tulip; Stilton Cheesecake Topped with Poached Pear

Wines
Domaine des Maurières, Coteaux du Layon 1998
Ceretto Santo Stefano Moscato D’Asti 2006

The walk-around sparkling reception was harmless enough. One French couple arrived, and as I asked them which sparkling wine they wanted to start, the elderly gentlemen, in a rather gruff tone, barked out, “We will not have alcohol, only sparkling water.” And a giant welcome back to you, pardner.

Meanwhile, my French counterpart, who resembled a rough-sanded Philippe Noiret, was asking about the Crozes-Hermitage Rouge. It seemed some of the corks were a bit soggy and the two sommeliers on duty were concerned about the red wine inside. He was unphased and said something about this is the way a natural product should be.

Well OK, then. And that would be fine with me, too.

However, some of the wines were a little corky, and not in a “Hi, my name is Alice Feiring and I’ll have some of what you are having,” kind of way that encouraged the appreciation of unmanipulated wines. Forgive me, Alice, these were wines that had seen temperature fluctuation in storage, and they were a little crippled. Fortunately, not all of them were, so the sommeliers and I culled through the lot and found, we thought, enough bottles for the group of 76 anxious spectators.

The first course was my moment to shine. I thought sure the Italian was the French and vice versa. A gentleman at my table wanted to discuss the wine I thought was French. I explained to him, because it was a 2004, you could tell by the oxidation in the glass that it was an older wine. He didn’t like my explanation or the wine. One victory for the Italians. Or so I thought.

I got the wines backwards. He looked at this “expert” before him, and I knew I was in danger of losing this one to the French. Forget that his wife was with the Italian-American chamber and was Sicilian through and through. He was convinced I was an idiot. So I cinched up my pride and belted out a rational worthy of the finest Frenchman. “Now you can all relax,” I explained. “Your 'expert' has chosen to make the first mistake so we can all sit back and enjoy ourselves.” No one bought that one. One more try. “Look,” I pleaded, “the only thing that separates an expert from the rest of the folks is that experts make fewer mistakes, but they still make them. I admit it, now let’s enjoy the wines.” [Sub-text: that is unless you want to see how Sicilian I can become]. Sold.

Then the evening veered off into uncharted waters. For the second course, I had made the egregious error of staking out a position of modernity by choosing a red wine to go with the scallops. Smoky bacon wrapped scallops. And of course a more traditional French pairing would match a fine Chenin Blanc with them.

I really, really liked the Domaine des Baumard, Savennières. I just didn’t like it with the scallops. For that matter, the Santi “Solane” Valpolicella Classico Superiore Ripasso didn’t go all that well with the second course, either.

Then came the obligatory red-meat course. Every wine dinner gots to have ‘em. Unless you are in California. Why is that? Who knows?

Now the food and the wine were matching up well, the kitchen was putting out plates to the tables, no one was complaining. Everyone was drinking. It was getting louder and louder in the room. I went to the microphone to talk about the wines.

Nobody wants to listen. They are having too good of a time. Fine. I slink back to my table, the Frenchmen looking at me as if to say, “Don’t talk now, enjoy the meal. That is the duty you have now. Sit down. Shut up.”

At that point, one of the sommeliers slides over to me, little beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He is running out of the Crozes-Hermitage, and the last table still needs to be served.

I told him to find a bottle that isn’t too bad, that we are probably being too sensitive about the soggy corks. Take the bottle over there, and serve it. I, after all, have been commanded to sit and eat.

Five minutes later, my French counterpart came over to the wine table, there was secondary-furrow on his brow and he seemed alarmed. They have a wine at the table that is going through another fermentation, and did we have any more of the Crozes-Hermitage? Of course, no problem. The sommelier tended to their needs. Touché.

Last course, dessert. Here the wines outshine the food. They are varied from each other and offer a sweet counterpoint. The two wines actually dance together much better than the dessert, a lazy-Susan assortment of various items.

Then comes the moment of truth. My French counterpart and I must get in front of this now happy but unruly crowd to discuss the wines. I notice the Frenchmen at the table and their wonderful shoes. Coupled with their conservative outfits and their impeccable women. I glance towards some of the Italian tables, women in slinky black and red leather, their men in crisp white shirts and tailored Italian suits. Some of the young men wearing those pointy little shoes that fashionistas still linger over.

“We would now like to see which wines everyone chose,” I croon into the microphone, channeling my inner Perry Como At this point the Frenchman explains something philosophical. Then, I have this epiphany of the logical Gallic man who finds joy in explaining why they are so different from everybody else, while this American-Italian sees how the Italian in me has spent his whole life reaching across the aisle to welcome the diversity and embrace our differences. No sale, again. But for me, a crystal clear moment as to how and why the French and the Italians are so similar, but in such different ways.

A major problem arose at the judging of the Third Course, the Beef Tenderloin with Wild Mushroom Demi-Glace with the Guigal Crozes-Hermitage Rouge 2003 and the Coppo Camp du Rouss” Barbera d’Alba 2004. It seems the wine I had on my “official card” that said it was the Italian wine was in reality the French wine. Or so the French table assuredly pleaded. It didn’t take much for me to agree; I too, thought the wines had been switched in the glass by the sommeliers. The restaurant owner came up to me and explained that no, they hadn’t been switched; everything was as it had been marked. But I had tasted too much of the poor Crozes-Hermitage to relent in my judgment and of course, the Frenchmen were also correct. It would have been too easy to explain the bad wine was Italian. After all, a random American-Italian man came up to a Frenchman earlier in the night and literally surrendered to the notion that all French wines were better than any Italian wines. Even though he had never set foot on Italian soil. That’s another blog. And this has gotten way too long.

So where did that leave us in the battle of the bottles? Who won? Who knows? Who cares? There were some good wines from both countries. And people were surprised to know they chose preferences, in a blind tasting, that they wouldn’t normally make. And that is really OK. We had some fun, and I learned there are more similarities between the two countries than differences. I know the French might disagree with me on that last point. Oh well, vive la différence.

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