Which Wine With Seersucker?

Yesterday when I got into the car, after a day of work, the temperature read 98°F. Today when I went into work everything seemed like it had all gone South, like I’d landed smack dab in a bowl of idiot soup. Some days, in this business, you don’t know if you’re a Seer or a Sucker. So, let’s celebrate our blissful ignorance on this Wednesday in May.

A few weeks ago I was walking around the Tompkins Square Park area in NY with a few friends and noticed one of them was wearing a seersucker blazer. We proceeded to taunt him (and to subsequently cyber-bully him), but there was a prophetic air to his apparel of choice. Now it is hotter than blazes and I gots to get me one of them seersucker blazers.

In the meantime, a little pre-summer exercise on wines that match with seersucker. Not just any seersucker, but special selections of seersucker, some designer, some just out-and-out ridiculous. But not every wine is for everyone, isn’t that right my dear friends in the Bowery?

Lyric header host for this heedless post is Steve Miller, a good ‘ol Dallas boy.

Puttin' her rouge on, Slippin' her shoes on, My baby's gettin' ready to dance
Speaking of blissful ignorance, the first is a light-hearted trio of Bubbly’s from Barefoot: a Chardonnay and Pinot Grigio and a White Zinfandel. Marks off for calling them Champagne (not a Growers one, I snarkfully presume). But major kudos for supporting a cause that is near and dear to me, the Pacific Coast chapter of the National MS Society. (And no, I am not talking about sommeliers here. Those who know me, know what I’m talking about).


Coming to you baby on a midnight train
It goes with alligator and polo; it walks the walk and talks the talk. The wine is light but it isn’t simple. It’s a Matrot Meursault with a Stelvin instead of a cork. So it says cool and groovy at the same time as it says refined and sophisticated. Great for hanging around Tompkins Square Park in a brown bag till all hours of the night while waiting for the bars to open up in the morning, so you can order a Harvey Wallbanger or Ramos Gin Fizz.


I’m a joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight toker
This begs to be Bio-dynamite from Berkeley, a home made garage wine from a former SDS activist in a seersucker suit. That would count out Kermit and Neal, but there’s got to be another Big Boy out there still in hiding. Actually, we found him west of the East Bay, hiding in the hills on the Ridge estate, where a Chardonnay can be found in small amounts. From their Santa Cruz Mountain vineyards, first planted to Chardonnay in the 1940’s. Our lyric host, Steve Miller said it best when he sang:

You're the cutest thing
That I ever did see
I really love your peaches
Want to shake your tree
Lovey-dovey, lovey-dovey, lovey-dovey all the time
Ooo-eee baby, I'll sure show you a good time

Ooe-ee Baby!


I’m a picker, I’m a grinner, I’m a lover and I’m a sinner
Like it cool and dry, but need something ripe and ready? A little tango teaser from Argentina might be the perfect match with this swatch of seersucker. We popped a bottle of Astica Torrontés the other night and it was my Johnny Walker Red son who said, “What is that? I like it!”
Great floral aromas, slightly moscato-like with shades of tropical gardenia. Sweet young thing, not too dry, very seer-sucker and slurp-worthy. We even found a pair of seersucker tango shoes to go with it.


Go on take the money and run
It woulda-shoulda been a Brunello, but now I’m betting on those new ’03 Toscana IGT’s. Can’t tell you who they’ll all be ‘till after June 10, but there’ll probably be a swarm of them. Or not. Might be better with a seersucker coppola hat, as shown. Helps to cover-up your eyes from all the bright lights putting the spotlight on the garbage in Naples that has found its way to the dumps in Tuscany?


Her lips are red, Her body is soft, She is a movin' volcano
That would be a red wine from Sicily, what else? From Tenuta delle Terre Nere Etna Rosso: Nerello Mascalese with a little Nerello Cappuccio. With a little up tick in the activity on the slopes of Etna, and here we go lookin’ for some grass fed Baw’b que. Enough to turn a vegetarian into a flexatarian for a night. Livin’ in the USA.


Tired of the war and those industrial fools
You know what I’m talking about, maybe it’s that wealthy industrialist who made a gazillion bucks in the gas and oil industry who decided to chuck it all and set up shop in the Rutherford Bench? Now he’s planning on how to save the world from low-scoring unoaked wines. This calls for a seersucker selection from Rosenthal wines, n'est-ce pas? A Cassis Blanc from Domaine du Bagnol: Marsanne, Clairette and Ugni Blanc in a fruity aromatic cease fire from the madness of making the daily bread. I had this wine a few weeks ago, after a night of Gravner, and I can still taste, and remember this wine for its clarity and its joyful purity. Peace, y’all.


Abra-abra-cadabra, I want to reach out and grab ya
From Puglia a Fiano-Greco , Prima Mano. Reaches right out of the glass and grabs ya and doesn’t wrinkle the seersucker. Clear flavors, bright and not spoofed up. No smoke and mirrors, just a clean shake and a hangover-free morning.


Some people call me the space cowboy, yeah. Some call me the gangster of love
From the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, a Sauvignon Blanc from Linden Vineyards. I like what the winemaker says, "Rather than having a wine defined by oak and alcohol, I prefer a wine that is defined by its ‘sap’ ”. Less than 300 cases made, so you’re gonna hafta call yore relatives if’n you wants some.


Somebody give me a cheeseburger
All those hot dogs earlier in the month, during a field trip to Brooklyn, got me to thinking about a reddish wine to go with them. The closest I got was thinking about a wine from Kermit Lynch from Corte Gardoni, a Bardolino Chiaretto (Rosato). I can has hot dog? And free range and grass fed if I wants to? Yes I can. Just in time for the Seersucker Invitational Park Slope Bocce Ball Tournament.

Good night and “Gob-less”.

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

Current Italian Wine DOCG List

To the best of my ability, here is the list, after the jump.

Complete Listing of Italian DOCG Wines (as of May 2008): 41

Abruzzo (1)
Montepulciano d'Abruzzo "Colline Teramane"

Campania (3)
Fiano di Avellino
Greco di Tufo
Taurasi

Emilia Romagna (1)
Albana di Romagna

Friuli-Venezia Giulia (2)
Picolit
Ramandolo

Lazio (1)
Cesanese del Piglio

Lombardia (4)
Franciacorta
Oltrepo Pavese
Sforzato della Valtellina
Valtellina Superiore

Marche (2)
Conero
Vernaccia di Serrapetrona

Piemonte (12)
Asti spumante - Moscato d'Asti
Barbaresco
Barbera d'Asti
Barbera del Monferrato Superiore
Barolo (Chinato, as well, falls under this DOCG)
Brachetto D'Acqui o Acqui
Dolcetto di Dogliani Superiore o Dogliani
Dolcetto di Ovada Superiore
Gattinara
Gavi o Cortese di Gavi
Ghemme
Roero

Sardegna (1)
Vermentino di Gallura

Sicilia (1)
Cerasuolo di Vittoria

Toscana (7)
Brunello di Montalcino
Carmignano
Chianti
Chianti Classico
Morellino di Scansano
Vernaccia di S.Gimignano
Vino Nobile di Montepulciano

Umbria (2)
Montefalco Sagrantino
Torgiano Rosso Riserva

Veneto (4)
Bardolino Superiore
Recioto di Gambellara
Recioto di Soave
Soave Superiore

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

In Search of Authentic

In the last few weeks I have been mulling over the idea of what it means to be authentic. It seems that, along with terroir and technology, authenticity has a place on the bus. With regards to things Italian, and in my case, being a child of immigrants from Italy in search of the modern American experience, this is a multi-layered area.

Friends like Carlo on the east coast and Roberto on the west coast could probably attest to their version of this experience. When I talk to Italians who have newly come to America, they have a different idea of what it is to be Italian and also what it means to become American. As well, when I talk to 3rd generation Italian-Americans, they have some very different ideas about their roots and their current place in the sun.

One size doesn’t fit all.

When you add the focus of my interest, wine and food, there can be a multitude of expressions. I’ve said that about three times now, so everyone who has gotten this far probably gets it now. But, what if we were all right? And all wrong?

How do we perceive our place in our culture? In my case, it’s like this. I was born in California and spent half my life there. So I am definitely a Californian, in fact there are few native Californians around anymore. I've lived in New York and go back there often. Half a lifetime ago I moved to Texas, and I consider myself also a Texan. And yes both set of grandparents came from Italy and both of my parents are of Italian origin, so I am also an Italian. Not like Italians in Italy. But Italian, according to the way I see it.

Where does my authenticity come from? It comes from anywhere and everywhere, and most likely from the stronger parts of my personality. There is this triumvirate of the Italian-Californian-Texan which directs the movie of Alfonso. These three versions of me running around in my head also have on the bus the ancient Roman, The New Yorker, the Native American, the Egyptian, the Arab, the priest, the gunslinger and the Boy Scout.

We all have some things directing our inner movie. What are yours?
Food: Let’s take this slow. My mom, when I was growing up, made all kinds of food. We had lentils, we had meatballs. We had fish, we had lasagna. We had eggplant Parmigiano, we had burgers. If my dad was in the mood, we’d have tripe in tomato sauce. Or she’d bread up some meat cutlets and fry or bake them off. On Friday’s she’d bake these flat loaves, slice them open, put fresh ricotta and olive oil, salt and pepper, and nobody in our neighborhood ate better that night. We had broccoli, we had the most amazing manicotti that my mom would make. She was good with pasta. And her cannoli were to die for. She still makes a fruit cake (at 93) that she sends to me. I drizzle it with brandy and it can last for years.

260-268 Elizabeth St, NY

My sister Tina has a canister of noodles our grandmother made before she died in 1976. She calls them Nonna’s noodles and they are in her kitchen, her good luck totem that protects the ancient recipes she has learned. She picked up all the great recipes from the grandmothers, the aunts, the mothers and mother-in-law and she rocks the kitchen. Is it Italian? She makes dolmas to die for. Now my mom does too. No, it isn’t indigenous, but it is delicious. They’re not overdone with technique, just what was handed down. Maybe a short cut here or there. But this has become part of the experience of being an immigrant in an America where everyone wins.

Wine: The old guys used to slip me a glass of wine, not mixed with water. When I hear that or read it in someone’s memoirs, I want to raise my hand and ask a question. I do not remember it ever happening to me. My grandfather never did it when he gave me a little sip of brandy before I went to sleep. At the table, there was wine. And later on in the 1970’s, somehow, carbonated beverages showed up in the kitchen. But they went with sandwiches, with lunch, as a snack, and rarely. Not for dinner. Coke with my grandma’s roasted lamb? Never. 7-Up with my mom’s spaghetti and meat ball? 7-Up was for when you were sick. It went with her healing chicken soup with acine di pepe. Wine just didn’t taste good when one was puny.

My dad started buying jugs of California wine and putting them in decanters. He was a trickster, liked to impress his business partners. I still remember those wines, mountain red. They remind me of Montepulciano or Cotes du Rhone. White wine? I drink it now and love it. Back then, it wasn’t around. Too bad, my mom’s manicotti would have been pretty good with a Soave or a Gravina. But it was not to be.

Did the wines taste spoofed up? Not at the time. And I think, even though they were probably made in a 1960-ish semi-industrial manner, the wines weren’t doctored with wood dust or deep purple. For sure, they weren't "thermostyled". I can still remember how those wines taste and they tasted, to me, more like country wines from Central and Southern Italy. Big surprise, most of the wines were made by children of Italian immigrants, or the immigrants themselves.

I remember asking my mom’s mom once, how she compensated for the loss of her motherland. She left Italy when she was 30, so she had time to get into being an Italian, even if she was dirt poor (They ate well even then). She had been transplanted and re-grafted onto a new country. That was it in her eyes. She never looked back. She became a Native American.

Now, when I hear the chatter and debate of indigenous vs. international, of natural vs. technology driven, of fruity and alcoholic vs. acidic and restrained, I step off the trolley for a minute. And I take a deep breath. And then get back into the battle zone. My shield has a coat of arms on it that explains to friends and foe alike, what I believe in. And this isn’t the first time I’ve said it on this blog.

Authentic? I want the best you can give me. I want truth and I want beauty. I want meaning and it needs to be deep. And if, for some reason you cannot bring that to my table, flirt with me, compliment me, do your magic. Do your best. Just make sure it is delicious.

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

Images courtesy of the great photographers from the past

Read My Lapse

The Consorzio del Vino Brunello di Montalcino's quick response to the current debacle has been hailed in the US.





"Keesa me goo'night, Eddie".

Interview with the Ancients

Imagine taking a walk in a quiet place. In it, there were many souls from ancient times. They were from Greece and Italy, Sumeria and Egypt, Persia and Etruria. The voices were silent but the souls were coming through loud and clear, on a Friday afternoon on the eastern edge of Central Park.

I had just interviewed a gentleman about his life, his book and things Italian. But we didn’t quite make a connection. How could you do anything in 15 minutes, except perhaps to size each other up like two bulls in a ring? Not that it was that kind of encounter. I left feeling the need to reconnect with my roots, so I hopped on a subway and headed back a couple of thousand years, to interview the ancient ones.

Q. What were the wines like when you were living?

A. They were dark and musky, and warm. They tasted a little like sour water sometimes and at other times sweet like rose petals.

Q. Who made the wine in your community?

A. We had families who passed the trade down from generation to generation. There were families, like in Chaldea, who had been working with the grape for hundreds of years.

Q. Who among you were the first to taste wine?

The fellow in profile speaks

A. When we first tasted it, it came about by accident. One of the servants had left a vase of grapes lying around in a cool dark place and forgot about it. Several weeks later one of the porters was walking around and smelled this sweet odor. He had it brought up to the dining area and we all took bites out of this fruit we knew, but it tasted very different this time. And the juice in the bottom of the vase we all took sips of. This was something we had never experienced before. So we instructed the porters to pick more grapes and let them sit in the basement in the same manner. That was the first time we had seen it.


Q. How did the news of this travel?

A. Slowly at first, but after 400-500 years pretty much everybody in the known world had an idea of the transformative powers of the grape.

Q. And the merchants, how did they fit in?

A. At first, it was seen as a religious ritual, so the merchants stayed away. A tribe of women eventually wound their way through the empire, setting up trade with the Egyptians.


Q. Many times we hear that the Greeks brought wine culture to Italy. Who knows about that in this room?

An Etruscan princess answers

A. We had already started with the grape before the Greeks arrived. We had been going on for several hundred years. What the Greeks did was to bring some new grape types with them, but not superior to the ones we had been cultivating for 500 years.

Q. It seems Ancient Romans loved wine. Poems were written about it, buildings and temples were erected in honor of the god of the grapes.

A. That all is true, but keep in mind we had very little to eat and drink. We were often sick and food went bad quickly. Wine kept, and it kept us well and our bellies full. And it made us happy.


Q. Did the grape have anything to do with the expansion of the Empire(s)?

A. Other than it went where man went? Of course when we conquered Gaul or the Huns or the Britons, we would plant vines and keep the local people collected and subdued. Wine had a part to play in the civilizing factor of the wild tribes.

Q. Last Question. If you were around today, what kind of wine would you like to see? What would you make?

An older Roman answers

A. Listen, I would round up some of my soldiers and head to Toscanium and set that land straight. I’d bring them back to the Jovian roots and light a bloody fire under their feet. And by all the power of Jupiter, we’d bring them back to the flame of truth and all that is holy about the miracle the gods have sent down from the heavens in giving us grape with which to make this precious wine. Anyone caught disrespecting the gift of the gods would be crucified and struck down, their family sent into exile. To go against the Divine Immortals is the worst sin one could commit against the pantheon that rules our ancient souls.

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

The Pendulum

"...one step remained. One step! One little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great staircase of human life how vast a sum of human happiness or misery depends! I thought of myself, then of Pompey, and then of the mysterious and inexplicable destiny which surrounded us... I thought of my many false steps which have been taken and may be taken again." – Poe

Got time for a little navel gazing? 'Cause that’s where I'm going with this one.

25 years of carrying the torch for the Italian team. I feel like someone just pushed me in the ditch.

There are all kinds of wines for different tastes. I understand that. But I cannot tell how many times I have heard this line lately, and not just from Italians: “We have embraced tradition with innovation.” Or this one: “We are a traditional winery looking forward into the 21st century.” And this one: “We are an old style winery utilizing technology to improve what we have learned from the past.” None of these statements makes any sense.


Add to that the looming issue with Italian wines: Who can you trust?

When was the last time I had a Greco or a Fiano that really tasted like one? How many Verona IGT reds lately have I had that tasted more like a wine from the Maremma or Rutherford, than Valpolicella? When was the last time I had a Chianti that reflected the intentions of the land over the man? When did Mother Nature become la goomada? When did nurture become suffocate?

Did those starry-eyed post war kids with hopes and dreams become comfortable as they passed the keys to their Gucci-loafing children?

Well maybe not everyone, but the pendulum has swung out there. Way out. It cannot remain in an extreme position. It cannot be sustained. There is the issue of gravity. And balance.

This whirlwind in Tuscany is finally reaching the shores of America. Already in New York and out West there is rumbling. Pushback. Wayback. The midsection of the US has been rabbit punched for eight grueling years and we need a moment. To pay our bills, to recalibrate. To gather some hope for ourselves.

April was the first month I have witnessed where I’ve seen downward trends in Italian wine sales. Things are slowing down. It’s not a sky-is-falling spiral, but it’s a gut check for anyone who is looking at the numbers.

Let’s talk about wine. I was with a young one who lived in Southern Italy for four years and just returned home to Texas. We were tasting wine and she remarked about a winery in Campania, “I don’t remember their white wine tasting so buttery and smooth and international.” I hadn’t thought about it, I was too busy plowing on through the year, when out of the mouth of babes came a truth. She was right. Last week, in New York, I was having dinner with an old friend and we were talking about the very same thing. “Yeah, I talked to one of the owners and asked him how it was going. Do you know what his answer was? Our wines are very popular. Not, our wines are a reflection of our land. But, our wines are appealing.” Oh really?

I have tasted Montepulcianos from Abruzzo recently. Seems like a lot of people want to bring their wines to market. I have a long experience with Montepulciano and remember those brawny, sweaty, nutty, reds that when you tasted it knew it was from the hills above you. Now, many of them taste like they came off an assembly line.

I was in Italy last month, tasting Barolo and Barbaresco. For what seem like hundreds of years now I have tasted Nebbiolo, what a rollercoaster ride! Sometimes the wines are a reflection of where they come from, in that unique way a wine is when it only has one area where it is comfortable growing. And then sometimes it seems like we are dealing with a perfume manufacturing mentality; crank out another flavor, give us something sexy for the camera, can you show us some skin? More toast. More velvet, more color, more money, more stuff. Less substance.

Who can you turn to? What can you trust in?

Salespeople rattle about this wine and that wine like it is the latest laundry detergent or smart phone. What happened to the old gang who loved the camaraderie and the product? Sure there might be an incentive here or there, but what about the thrill of the game, not the urgent flavor of the moment? What about the soil? The vine? The grape?

These wines are now like trophies, everything is a treasure, without the hunt. We want a pretty wife; we get the doctor to make her prettier. We want to be cool, we get a fast car. We want to sell, we quote a score.

What about all those Italians in our veins and our DNA, looking out from generations past, what would they think of this moment?

I think we are at a crossroads and it is a crucial time for the wines of Italy and her relationship to the American market. Where's a good place to start? How about less marketing pesticide – more plowing in the trenches of the heart.

There have been missteps. I hope for steps out of the darkness towards a future that swings back to authenticity and integrity.

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

Vintage photos by Vittorio

Etc! Etc!! Etc!!!

With the warm weather heading this way, a few words about white wines from Italy. Where I live, the next five months will be warm and warmer. Red wine can just be too heavy, as a daily regimen. Vegetables are coming to the table; lighter foods are appearing as well. I am turning to white wines.

A few lately have come across the table.


Marco de Bartoli Grappoli del Grillo

This wine appeared on the table right before a dish of pesce crudo with grapefruit and wild greens. This Sicilian Grillo, from one of the great Marsala producers, is a bouquet of freshness. I was parched when this wine was poured into my glass, and I was blessed with a benediction of flavors, hinting at “someday when I grow up I’m gonna be a Marsala.” Not a chance, this wine has famous grandparents, but it’s a thong and flip flop sandal set wine.


Bruno Giacosa Arneis
“I’m going to order this wine because I don’t get Arneis.” was what my colleague at lunch confessed. What he meant, he elaborated, was that there is no defining style for this variety. I agree. I've had the Ceretto and the Pio Cesare recently in Piedmont and they were polar opposites. The Giacosa entry matched up well with fare served recently at the Landmarc in Tribeca. We had it with a fois gras terrine, followed by a grilled half chicken with mashed chickpeas and arugula. The wine is a sexy-delicate quaff, but paired with food it slipped into something a little more comfortable. Not just a one-night-stand kind of wine, more of a long-weekend fling. Very nice with the food, and on a wine list priced slightly above retail to encourage experimentation.


Falesco Est! Est!! Est!!!
Coming off a recent death march of a road trip, I headed straight from the airport to a reception. The last thing I wanted to do was drink wine. Water was what I needed and lots of it. But there was this little tray of white wine being passed around and I couldn’t be the speaker at a wine event only drinking water. I was pleasantly surprised when this wine splashed onto my palate. I wasn’t expecting much substance, what I got was a lingering memory of a delicate, understated wine with a striking aroma of sweet lilies. The flavor was a brisk jump into a fresh stream of nectarines and unripe green apples, sweet and tart not sinking to the bottom, floating down the course in an inner tube of contentment.


All Hail Texas Grapegrowers
If you want something else, a shameless plug for the trials and tribulations of extreme winemaking in Texas. Kim Pierce has written a fascinating article about a place that makes me want to go and see what they're are doing up in the High Plains, 4,000 feet above sea level. Check it out.

And, as they say in the Bronx, “Chin-tann” y'all. I'm heading to the Met.

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

An Italian's Love For New York

“Oshpett, oshpett,” the beer vendor barked on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Yankee Stadium. He was clearing the way for fans to get to their seats when I heard the remnants of a southern Italian dialect, several generations removed. For the folks he was selling beer to, he’d often end his transaction with a parting “Chin-tann.”

Layered under decades of time and waves of subsequent immigrations, the Italian voice is stretched but not silenced. One needs only to scratch the surface only slightly to see the Italian presence in New York.

“Dig down into New York and you’ll reach Rome,” I once heard on a cold winter night several decades ago. I’m not sure how that applies in today’s world, but looking around the city today, it seems Italians are exploring the new New York, and loving every minute of it.

Once a section at the ballpark would be filled with suited up gentlemen, hats and all, with their mandatory cigar, looking after the legacy of Lazzeri, Rizutto and DiMaggio. These days the field has altered and they sit in their seats along fellow fans from Japan, from all over the world, and follow the careers of Giambi, Jeter and Matsui. E la nave va.

Hungry? Get yourself a Nathan’s, a kosher dog or a hot Italian sausage. You can even find a cannolo in the stadium if you dig deep enough.

Traveling in the subways and walking along the streets upside one can hear the ring of Italian being spoken. From the southern dialects now woven into a new patois’ to the fresh staccato sounds of tourists from Friuli or the Veneto. The city is crawling with all kinds of Italians looking for a slice of New York to love.

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

Wine Bahs

New York
“The last time I saw a selection of wines this idiosyncratic was on a closeout list from a distributor,” somebody was heard to say, when talking about one of the many wine bars that have sprung up across the country.

Whether it is to find an outlet for those seldom seen wines, that do often languish in the corners of many a wholesaler’s warehouse, or if it is the result of a methodical search for a pure expression of wine, today’s wine lover need only to stumble into a wine bar. Or enoteca, as we say, on the wine trail.

Minutes before I was to do just that, I was in a clothing store that caters to young urbanites. On display were as many different T-shirt selections as I would soon be faced with when looking at the wine list. One shirt caught my attention. It read, “Who the f*** is Mick Jagger?”

An hour later, over a glass of Gruner, Mick would pass by our window, sans entourage.

30 minutes earlier I slipped into the wine bar, before my friends. Ordering up a glass of an Italian white, an Asprinio, it recalled a wine I had made a hundred years ago in California. Tangy fruit up front, a hint of volatility, not quite ready for oil and salad, but veering off in that direction. That’s OK with me in small doses. Italian whites, especially made in a rustic style, can be charming when that element is doled out judiciously. Civet in a perfume can be attractive, ask anyone who loves Chanel No.5.

Speaking of the rear end of a tomcat, I am sitting here struggling with terroir. My friend and I had an appointment with the owner of a wine bar, who walked in, and by, chatted up his staff, looked not in any direction at his clientele (one of which, wasn’t he supposed to rendevous with?), and headed back out the door.

Maybe it’s all those years I worked at being invisible when I photographed on the streets. Perhaps he is forgetful, though we met and spent time together, recently. I’m quite sure the success of his career has nothing to gain from knowing me.

All these thoughts, not just to excoriate the young lion for his comportment. More to my quest is this elusive search for recognizability in that thing we call terroir.

I use a different word which comforts me and because I understand it better than terroir. Territoriality. Probably a made up word, but one which offers focus to a blurry scatter of opinions about the spirit of a place, which means something to us for a reason. Maybe it is because grapes grow there and unforgettable wine results. Or hands making memorable music. Perhaps it is because a certain potato flourishes there, exclusively, and from those potatoes a gnocchi (that I’ll never ever forget) of which I had three bowls, at lunch, in the Marche. Back there, in the dungeon of my memories.

As the forgetful proprietor hurried off to his more important task, my friend arrived with a colleague. We sat down to drink that bottle of Gruner, Mick hurrying off in the same direction as Mr. Oblivious. Everyone to their own T-shirt. Wine boss, rock hoss, jazz joss. Not yet, Thelonious, that’s coming, uptime, uptown. Later.

While the revolutionary T-shirts are brought to the table with a sampler of appetizers, we ordered another bottle, this time a red. I proceeded to blunder, thinking the name was printed on the list with a redundancy. My younger, more mentally agile colleague gracefully corrected me. Just so everyone knows, Italian wines, even to those who make a life study of them, have many, many names. This one, known as Lacrima di Morro d’Alba, just to make things interesting, is also not from Alba. Or anywhere near Piedmont. Look it up. Oh, and the winemakers sometimes use the Tuscan governo process, but it’s not from Tuscany. Got it?

About this time one of the observant ones at our table casually mentioned that Tom Waits just shuffled by, in the direction of William Burroughs old place. One of them is late. This is one helluva people-watching wine bar.

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