The dogs were biting at my ankles as I dodged into the greengrocer store here in town. Inside the genius-mad spiceman was cuddling in a corner with his heirlooms. I had seen him down the street in the Italian shop, where he told me he had scored some wild asparagus from the Basque part of France. I was hopelessly locked in a mad dash to get my green on.Later that evening we had been invited to our friends’ flat. Not just any flat, it is in an older but still desirable part of town. It’s a minimal space, clean and uncluttered. The friends had just returned from a six week road trip to places in the world I would never see.
Simple food and a few wines from the cabinet, I was just coming off cold-turkey withdrawals from Riesling, but I was in the game and looking past the Mosel, for the moment.
You never know when a wine will surprise you. For instance, we were going to have a Verdicchio from Matelica, usually a wine I go crazy for. Before that wine, though, our host opened a bottle of Beringer Alluvium, a white from Semillon and Sauvignon, and a splash of Chardonnay and Viognier. No chance of tasting terroir there, right?I had been to Beringer in February for a tasting and a dinner but I didn’t remember the wine except as a brief snapshot during the reception.
Terroir and California don’t go together? So the debate goes. Being a native of California, perhaps I sense the underlying thread that a place like California weaves into every thing Californian. I get it, don’t always like that some winemakers cover it up with their barrels and their egos and their lofty ambitions. Then again, a winery like Stony Hill manages to dodge the barrels and the reverse osmosis parade that is going up and down Hwy 29. So it is possible.
Anyway, this Alluvium didn’t seem so out of kilter. In fact it wasn’t until our host handed me a glass of the Verdicchio (a Gambero Rosso 3 glass’er, so he told me) that I nearly jumped out of my skin. The California wine reflected its California-ness more truthfully than the Verdicchio portrayed its Marche-ness. Pure and simple, no debate, I was longing for more of the Beringer and hoping the Verdicchio would just go away.
Still, I was in that Riesling trance of late, so that might have something to do with it. Nah, I’m not buying into that.The Verdicchio had great acidity, but a little too highly pitched. What was the winemaker thinking? Let’s raise the heels up another inch, hike up the skirt, lower the bodice, there, she’ll be a real stunner. What does Sergio@IWM call ‘em, bona?
Well, it didn’t work this time. Anyway we were on to reds
We were joined by a couple who had just arrived from San Francisco. Fresh air, lively conversation, some new ideas, waiting for the red wines to breathe.
Earlier in the day I had gotten a text from one of my Italian Wine Daughters about Rampolla’s Sammarco. This is what I love about the young’uns, they have a question about the 2003 Tuscan harvest, they send you a text. I think we got it worked out. Sammarco, by way of answering the IWD, is indeed 95% Cabernet and 5 % Sangiovese, not the other way around as I told her. Sorry.But here’s a winery that has embraced their green-ness, Rampolla, that is. And they are making a Cabernet in Sangiovese country. Whose fault is that? A younger Tachis, no doubt, but it works for me. There are all kinds of surprises in the vineyards, aside from the way we think it should be.
The SF couple has a vineyard in Alexander Valley, Laughing Raven. Sauvignon and Barbera was what I heard they make, perhaps something else. We must try these wines too. I think there will be more surprises.Many folks are searching for their simple truths, and life on earth just isn’t giving the answers we would expect.
The host pours a red wine and folks ask what it is. Wine, drink it. OK.
Back to Italy and the Marche, to a wine that if I could nail in a blind tasting it would make me very happy. Le Caniette Nero di Vite, a Rosso 50% Montepulciano and 50% Sangiovese, lots of wild-ass acidity bordering on volatile, taking you right to the edge of the brink, strapping on the rubber bands and pushing you over to a bungee-jump-of-a-lifetime swallow-of-wine. And back up to do it again. And again. That bottle didn’t last too long.
The Marchegiani have the great secret of Italy growing wild right out of the pots in front of their windows.Piceni invisibili they are. Happy, lucky, well fed.
Next up, a 2000 Barolo from Pira. They actually didn’t let the vintage take a hold of the wine in the sense that the wine was unencumbered with gobs of fruit. It was gob-less, and we could have used a second bottle. Man, that was nice, even if was too suddenly over. Some of ‘em are James Dean and some of ‘em are George Burns.
There was so much coming at me, for this post, but it would be too long. This search for the appropriate shade of green in one’s life, who are we to think that we are directing any of this? Come on, take one down and pass it around, 95 other bottles waiting to come down. Keep the line moving, bub. We can tackle our inner terroir some other time.
Finally, all is quiet. It's past midnight and I’ve poured the last glass of 2005 J.J. Prum Graacher Himmelreich Spatlese. Way off the Italian wine trail, and loving every sip.
It’s been a long week. I’m ready to pack it up and take the long weekend. Been getting ready for a seminar I’m co-opting with the resident Master Sommelier, Sir Guy. A few days in New Orleans, for training and education at the Society of Wine Educators annual get together. Our seminar, as Sir Guy named it, Don’t pass over Ripasso, will be lots of fun. After all, we will be in the Crescent City. A little red wine, some jazz, many, many seminars, but all I can think about right now is this glass of Riesling.
Graacher Himmelreich, Heaven will reign. A white goddess this Riesling is and all these years, though I love Italian wine with all of my being, there has to be room for Riesling. When I first started out in this business, I was so damn lucky to be exposed to wines from the Mittelmosel, they are my Burgundy. There, I’ve said it.
So doors seem to be opening, traffic is up, good wine is flowing, a long weekend is upon us and another trip in the wings, this time to New Orleans.
Puttin' her rouge on, Slippin' her shoes on, My baby's gettin' ready to dance
Coming to you baby on a midnight train
I’m a joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight toker
I’m a picker, I’m a grinner, I’m a lover and I’m a sinner
Go on take the money and run
Her lips are red, Her body is soft, She is a movin' volcano
Tired of the war and those industrial fools
Abra-abra-cadabra, I want to reach out and grab ya
Some people call me the space cowboy, yeah. Some call me the gangster of love
Somebody give me a cheeseburger
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.
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.
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.
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.
Q. What were the wines like when you were living?
The fellow in profile speaks
An Etruscan princess answers
An older Roman answers
