Out On a Limb for an Etna

Some time back, when I was invited to Sicily to evaluate several vineyard projects, a few of us were sitting around the midnight table with passito and amaro. Next thing you know, we grabbed a few hours of sleep and then piled in a large van and headed towards the volcano. It was our homage to Burning Man, and what was waiting for us wasn’t what we had expected.

Living the Life You’ve Dreamed

Forget the Euro and the price of oil, the mergers and strategic joint adventures; let us plunge back through the pinhole of reality. Italy, vineyards, grapes, fresh food. The life you’ve dreamed.

All through the year these pages divulge personal ardor for things Italian, some real and some imagined. But there comes a time when it just doesn’t matter which is which. What we are dealing with, here and now, is the awareness of an Italy that transcends time and space. I’m sure there are cynics lurking around the dark corners of some Chinon-soaked bar, just waiting to pounce on another man’s dreams. Those people are dead to themselves. I say, dream and live, and live the dream.

Abruzzo in the summer of 2008 is looking like the archetypical pastoral Italy of the 1970’s, the 1740’s, of hundreds or thousands of years ago, or sometime in the future. It is timeless beauty. There’s no reason to shun it or criticize those who love it for its own sake. Look, even if you never make it to Italy, you can still reap the joys of the harvest of the heart. The fool in the corner is kicking a cat and spitting out blood, and then expects us to revere his bleak judgments, because it is contrary and has a gravitas that is attention seeking. But the blind old man is living alone in his tree house in a sunless country. Look around you, sunflowers don’t grow in hell.

I am in awe of my Italian friends who live this way, an everyday occurrence. Along with that there is a fecundity in the air, the soil, the bounty. This is no accident. This is no illusion; there is no corporate nudge moving things along in a timeline to become the biggest, the best, the longest, the hardest. It is all in a flow of collaborative providence.

Do you ever wonder, if you are somehow involved in the world of wine, whether it be in a restaurant or a wine store, or as a salesperson in a distributorship or as a rep for an importer, why sometimes the wine runs out?


I am more surprised that it doesn’t run out more often. We bully and bloviate over some contessa who deigns to swim in the sea for a month or more, as if our mission statements or business plans were so much more important. I remember the story of the Italian Prince and his magic cellar and just stop. Inside, the word "cancel" pops up, my mantra which interrupts the chatty little monkey running around my brain. Who in the hell are we in America to say what the Italians should or shouldn’t do?

The wine will come when it comes, just like the tomatoes and the figs. If not, there is a McDonald’s down the avenue. Go, get your fill.

And if you truly can follow the advise of Mr. Thoreau and “live the life you’ve dreamed,” then this doesn’t seem so odd, so pie-in-the-sky. The disparager in the darkness cannot tempt you to drink his bitter drink of vinegar and bile. He’s invisible, has no secrets, no leverage.

“Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still.” Another Thoreau insight. Italy is full of the meat of life, filled with the marrow of passion, grab a rib and hold on. There is only one life; there is no time left to kill.

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

Thanks for the photos from Jeff and Audree Miller

Deep Thoughts in Agitated Waters

August 10, 2008
From: La Isola

I find it nearly impossible to wade into shallow water these days. Or maybe the problem is that I am wading in shallow water thinking it’s the deep end. I really didn’t intend to go here today. But sitting under the sun, watching the earth rotate while clouds above smirked at my insular orientation, it just popped out.

It started last week as I visited a group of restaurants. Here in North Texas it is restaurant week, a two to three week period in which selected restaurants dream up a three to four course menu, some of the proceeds going to a charity. Diners flock to these places, in the hope of getting a taste of a life they don’t normally frequent. Salespeople for distributors have been scrambling to print special food menus and to also reprint wine lists. Some of the wine lists will show higher wine prices.

I had forgotten that happened. After all, the other day I was looking at a list in the northern-burbs with a wine that I know the restaurant paid about $17 for. On the list they had it priced at $66. Ouch.

But does it really matter? We have countries going to war with each other, does it really mean anything if some poor slug in a bedroom community spends a little more than he should for a bottle of wine? So he pays $20 more than he should. He drives 30 miles less than he would if he drove into town with his gas-hog SUV, which gets 12mpg. Which works out, at $4 a gallon, to saving him about $10 in gas. And then there’s the time factor. So when countries across the planet are sending their citizens out and away from targeted urban areas to escape destruction of life, it really isn’t that big of a deal.

Back to Italy. A farmer makes a wine and sells it for €4.50, that’s about $6.75. It costs about $1 for taxes and to get it over. The importer adds 35%, the wholesaler adds 28% and that brings us to almost $17, if you round up. The restaurant owner marks it up to $66. That’s 10x, with the highest mark up at the end. BYOB places start looking better and better. Or cooking at home.

I mention this to a friend and colleague, who is also a mid-level manager. Forget about talking to the bar manager about this; they do not want to hear about anything that has to do with them making lesser margins, in percentage points. Bean counters don't want to hear it. Forget about the argument that you take dollars to the bank, not percentages. Forget the concept of getting good press for marking up your wine and then having the word spread. Forget about taking more money to the bank. And then folk wonder why so many places across the country are closing? Ask Charles Darwin.

The feel good part to this story? When you go to Italy and buy that same bottle of wine in a trattoria, you’ll probably pay somewhere around €12, which is under $20. See, the dollar doesn’t really suck as bad in Italy as it does in the US. And you’ll probably get charged somewhere around €50 (US $75) for dinner for two. So you get out for under $100. In a similar situation in Anytown, USA with the wine costing $66 and two people eating for around $50 each plus tip, you’re looking at almost $200. And the food will probably better fresher, simpler and better at the place in Italy. Now doesn’t that make you feel better?

It almost makes taking a vacation a cheaper thing to do than to just stay home. But then, home is where the work is, and the family, the life, etc.

While taking a ten day or two week vacation might be something that some folks reading this do on a regular basis, what do you do about the daily routine when you are at home?

Learning how to cook is a good first step. Then, learning where to source fresh, local or otherwise wholesome ingredients is a good next step. If you are lucky enough to have a store specializing in the foods you love, you are a very lucky person. In my home town, not far from where I live, there is a store that does that. Only Italian products. Even here in flyover country we have folks who give a damn. Mike and Paul DiCarlo, who own Jimmy’s in Old East Dallas (what used to be the Italian neighborhood), have dedicated themselves to all the above, and priced for folks other than the millionaires who are constantly worrying about losing their fortune. So that would be for most of us. Very cool solution.

And when another Italian restaurant closes in my town, I will not mourn its loss. All the more if they never listened to me about which wines to use and whether or not to employ fair pricing. Natural selection, the survival of the fittest.

And after 25+ years, that’s how I wage war. Quietly, peacefully, and with a good meal and a bottle of wine of my own choosing.

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

Which Wine With Googootz?

I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." - G. Marx

The bells and chimes are making a racket outside. The remnants of Tropical Storm Eduard are fleeing northward, overhead. It’ll probably make it in time to O’Hare before American Airlines does. Down below, on the terroir-stressed soil of Texas, we are in full-harvest mode. And just in time for the weekend, we have the cucuzza crop starting to hit. For Southern Italians, cucuzza is sacred, in fact there is a Sagra della Cucuzza in Calabria. Then again, they have a Sagra for almost anything, even a Sagra Cassata Siciliana.

But today the cucuzza is front stage and center. My son sent me a picture of the Cucuzza Squash Drill Team in California, so it seems a likely time to break out the old “Which Wine With” post format, for the second time this week, and give it a fling.

In preparation for that I emailed a couple of bloggers across the country to see what their choices were, along with a few old hands in this forsaken terroiritory. So let’s get started.

Then I heard from The East Coast, and Marco Povero.
His answer was a little longer

“Are you grilling it or having it tomatoes & pasta? These points are
important.”

I answered, “Doesn't matter-For the blog-You tell me-Subito-Grazie1000.”

His speedy reply:
“2006 Etna Rosato Scilio Sicilia
2006 Vesevo Greco Di Tufo
2006 Alticello Fiano Cantele Salento Apulia
2006 Costamolino Argiolas Vermentino Di Sardegna.”

A true Southerner trapped in the cold Northeast.

A short text to Tracie and she, being a foodie, also pressed, “Depends how it's made.”

Must be girl’s night out …. Any who, she followed with “...either a light red (Grignolino) or a deep rose'!”

Back to Curacao Mojitos and Jell-O-shooters girls, thanks for txtng bck.

Then I got on the phone with Tony the Bone and Joey the Weasel. They were heading to a party with a bunch of women. Or rather, “colleagues.” Don’t ask.

Tony answered “Riesling.” Could he have been a little more specific? They were rolling up to the party house.

Joey the Weasel mumbled a couple of inaudible suspects and then settled on a rather respectable Conti Zecca-Donna Marzia, Malvasia Bianco, from Puglia. Party on, ragazzi.

That wasn’t so difficult now was it?

Today I also found out the Koreans love cucuuza too. They have another name for it, sounds kinda like googootz.

But googootz thrives in the old Italian neighborhoods, one the East coast, up in Chicago, down here in Texas, and especially in Northern Louisiana (the cucuzza capital of the world), oh, and yes in California. It is loved in old Oraibi too, once had a friend who was a Hopi and he loved the stuff. He liked to dry it out to make ceremonial rattlers for some of the dance rituals. That’s right.


Women love to grow and pick googootz. The older ones even know how to cook it. My Nonna’s knew how to. My mom used to cook it for my dad and us kids. My mom’s recipe was good. It seems that everybody’s mom has a special recipe.

Some of those old Italians just loved to see how long it could get. They have contests in Canada to grow them at unbelievable lengths.

The plants take over the yard. And then they produce the fruit and they really go to town. I mean, before it’s over everybody is giving the stuff away. A little goes a long way.

The Northern Italians sometimes make fun of the Southerners love for cucuzza. I don’t know why, I think they just like to find anything they can to make fun of them. Kind of the way the old schoolers from the East Coast would taunt those who lived in the Southern states of the USA. Just plain ‘ol ignorance, manifestations of archetypical pathology. Probably don’t like accordions either.

Wine wise, for me? I’d go with a Montepulciano d’Abruzzo Cerasuolo or a light Calabria red like a Gaglioppo or a Ciro. There’s also a deeply colored Ciro rosato that would work. I could also go with a Cerasuolo di Vittorio (not a rose’) though it is a wee bit lighter than some Sicilian reds. I could also enjoy it with some of the Gruner Veltliner whites I tried last week, especially some of the Smaragds from Wachau. There, I got that in.

But if you could have one wine, only one, what would it be? Operators are standing by.

In the meantime, back to practicing. I can’t wait for the Sagra Cassata Siciliana, hoping to be invited to play with Beatrice again. Yeah, right.


My Cucuzza ~ by Louis Prima

My Cucuzza
Cucuzza bella
She's my pizza pie with lotsa mozzarella
With Cucuzza
I wanta be
'cause Cucuzza is so crazy over me
Cucuzza grows in Italy
They love it on the farm
It's something like zucchini
Flavoured with Italian charm
I call my girl Cucuzza
'cause she's sweet as she can be
She loves to hear me say
"Cucuzza please babotcha me"

My Cucuzza
Cucuzza bella
She's my pizza pie with lotsa mozzarella
With Cucuzza
I wanta be
'cause Cucuzza is so crazy over me

Now you can have your pasta
And your chicken cacciatore
I'd rather have Cucuzza
'cause for me it means amore
So when the moon is shining bright
On dear old Napoli
I dream of my Cucuzza
She's the only dish for me

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

It's a Doggy Dog World

I have been thinking about pain lately. Pain as pleasure. Pain as remembrance. Pain as ennoblement. It can double one over on a regular basis if it is sharp enough. It can recall moments from the past that never go away, never heal. It can remind one that all this is fleeting and transitory, this earthly shell, this carnal cage. And yet, we press on, we scrape and bite and scratch our way toward making sense of some thing in order to give these few moments a sense of meaning, a reason for being.

What ever one finds on the trail, wine will never be enough. But without wine, the pain could be unbearable. Sounds like something one might find in the writing of a desperate visionary from the late 1800’s? Perhaps. Maybe from a solitary soul sitting at his favorite restaurant in Palermo after WWII, working on his only book. Never to be published in his lifetime.

Probably for the better, as it would only collide with a world coming out of the succeeding century. Imagine this tidy, friendless someone, if he happened to accidentally get a glimpse into a world 50 years past the time in which he wrote what would be considered one of the greatest novels of Italian literature in the 20th century. And if his world concerned the world we have woven on this little Italian wine planet three times a week for the last two years, if he were to be dialed in to the planet that the Italian wine trail is, what then? Let’s talk a little walk down that road.

First of all he would see his children, and many others’ children, scarring themselves with elaborate decoration. His precious glass of wine, the one that he drinks everyday, that un quarto of vino bianco, might be a little brighter, a little lighter, a little merrier. Not so morosely introspective, so muddled, so flaccid. Pain as release from burdensome memory. Grillo gone girly.

His beloved trio of reds, Barolo, Brunello and Amarone, might appear a bit different after their last Crusade. Barolo will be leaner, more erect and youthful. Brunello would now pose as the standard bearer, the model of virtuous deportment. And Amarone will have lost his baby fat, not so sweet and lovable now, the campaigns have leaned him out and made him self aware and solemn.

One bright light in his fairy tree might be the white wines of the Northeast. Lithe and hopeful, not without having lost a little of their youthful innocence, but still hopeful in the anticipation of purity and promise. Fifty years have wrestled the fairy princess from the shackles of the grave Teutonic sentinel. Fifty years have produced lightness and a Lolita-like twinge from a high acid and sharp fruit profile.

Over in Barbarossa land, he might witness a still brooding range of reds, from Basilicata to Puglia, but he would also see that the lord of the manor had been wrestled to the ground and is now a servant prince. The price to pay for dominance can often be to serve. While wines to the north queue up for tankers filled with the golden rich sunshine of the red wines from the South, no one bothers to accuse those in the South of adulterating their wine with the thinner, weaker reds from Tuscany or Piemonte. And why bother? Barbarossa knew where to conquer and to be conquered in like. The pain of domination and a region ascends into a world that for thousands of years thought little of their Southern cousins.

Not one to gamble, except in matters of the heart, the old writer peered once again over his glass of wine and looks into the abyss. Staring back in a vacuous manner was an unkempt little tramp, Soave. Back in the day, the little white wine from the Veneto would be seen in a few restaurants in Palermo and would be seen with the various antipasti making their way in the bars of the Charleston. Nowadays, how would he feel about the stylish little osteria near his home, I Vespri, in the Palazzo Cagni of his family homestead? Instead of a solitary offering of Bolla, he could find the various bottlings of Tamellini, Inama and Pieropan. Not a huge gamble, no big stakes, but something gained, something won from the last fifty years.

The significance? If there is one, rather than a late night tip-toe through the tulips, it might be to admonish the old man for his stern countenance that led to his early demise. Or was it that he blew it all in one book and saw no reason to stick around? Surely the world has become a coarser place in the last half century. Less civil in some ways, more matter-of-fact. Less structured, but more flavorsome. Not without the little pains that come if you live long enough. But a little glass of Marsala or passito di Pantelleria can ease one into sweet slumbers in preparation for another day of battle in this agro-dolce world.

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

Thanks to the art, courtesy of The Tattoo Studio.

Hotter Than a Pizza Oven in Pozzuoli

Whirlwind week. Three days in Chicago, marathon wine tastings and food forays. Korean, Italian, Pizza, New American. Sicily, Piemonte, Campania, Wachau. That’s right. Wake up at 4:30 AM to catch a flight from Dallas to Chicago. Meet up with my colleague and Master-Somm, Guy Stout. Three days later, back to Dallas in the evening. Unpack, rest a few hours and wake up again at 4:30 AM to drive to Austin and then to Blanco for the Syrah harvest at Stout Vineyards. Arrive just as the last of the grapes are being rounded up and taken to a nearby winery for crushing. Fruit was good (24-26 brix), a small but healthy crop. From Nerello Mascalese on Etna to Syrah in Blanco, quite a week on the wine trail, from Italy to the hill country of Texas. And did I say it was hot?

Chicago was cooler, only in the 80’s (°F). The city really feels comfortable this time of year. I know it sounds crazy, but 105°F has a way of making 85°F seem like a cool front. I realize every city has its good and its bad but we had some great Italian (and Austrian) wine and food to match. A little less hectic than NY, more like a bunch of neighborhoods closer by. Love them both, but it was nice to reconnect with Chicago.

On the road again in Texas, to the Syrah harvest. A great time to connect with colleagues, co-workers, friends, clients and sit under the stars and talk to each other about wine and food and where the heck this is all taking us. That’s something about the Texas experience that is pretty unique. We all spend time talking to each other, moving this ship a few inches at a time. There is a great energy in this area, along with the heat, that I have not seen anywhere else in the country. I know some folk like to discharge Texas as some nameless, faceless place along the flight patterns from the East coast to the West coast. That would be a dismissive and erroneous; something very definitely is going in this country below the skies.

How does harvesting Syrah have anything to do with Gragnano or Gruner? I reckon it is all in the way one might understand the synchronicity of apparently unrelated experiences and how they add up to a whole new direction. We’re in the middle of something right now; I can’t even put my finger on it. But I know it’s there and it’s coming and it’s a pretty exciting time.

So sitting under the porch (where it was only 92°F) we were chatting about Aglianico and Valtellina Superiore, all five of them (Sassella, Grumello, Inferno, Valgella and Maroggia). One in our group was relating the difference between Fiano on the coast and Fiano inland and at higher elevations. She should know, being our resident Southern Italian wine expert. Another was on a mission to learn everything he could about Valtellinese wines. Kids after my own heart.

In Watermelon Sugar Grappa

Here we have the making of a group of young and engaged professional enthusiasts, just wanting to delve into the deeper aspects of Italian wines. The wine trail in Italy intersects the Blanco River from time to time and this is how it all weaves itself together, makes it relevant that we go to Texas Hill Country to harvest Syrah and Italian wine lovers, at the same time. All this over a platter of paella and some cool Dolcetto.

We spent some time talking to George Vogel, a peach farmer near Johnson City. Decided to go visit him and talk to him about ancient farm tools for a project one in the group was researching. George just turned 80, has spent his whole life in and around Johnson City. A pretty amazing place, the feel of it, the spirit of the place is All West, individualistic, a little LBJ thrown in there (remembering a President from Texas that was bigger than life) and a time spent listening to stories about the Germans and the farmers and the peaches. Good setting for an area that from 38,000 feet doesn’t seem to important. What does at that altitude? On the ground with a real person, and a story teller to boot, that’s the strength of this place.

Driving back home on the small highway 281 from Johnson City through Marble Falls, Lampasas and Glen Rose in heat that went up to 107°F. Even the dogs are looking to cool off.

Comfort minded folks need not apply. Stick to a comfortable air conditioned seat in a safe and darkened movie house, or the front of an airplane, and just fly on by. Getting through the security line at an international airport isn’t the work that interests us here on the front lines. This is the part of the wine trail for those who aren’t afraid of the heat or the streets. This is where we will build our trade, in the 21st century, from the rustic vineyards in Italy to the rugged frontiers of America.

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

Tre Giorni ~ Tre Pizze

Three days in Chicago, before the harvest in Blanco, Texas. Tasting new wines from Austria and Italy. Eating our way through this town. Korean, new American, Italian and Pizza. Today we had a trio of pizze from Spaccanapoli. This place ranks up there with Pizzeria Bianco in Phoenix and Luzzo's in NY.

The Truffle pesto, the Marinara and the Salsiccia e Broccoletti, Pizza Bianca with Italian Sausage, Rapini, Fior Di Latte Mozzarella. They just kept getting better. The last one, Salsiccia e Broccoletti, took my breath away.

Wines? Nino Franco Faive, Caggiano Irpinia Bianco Fiagre (Fiano-Greco), Ca dei Frati Lugana, Cusumano Benuara and Tenuta delle Terre Nere “Guardiola” Etna Rosso.

Spaccanapoli has a wine list that is predominantly Southern Italian. I have seen Italian places that have wine lists that are Italian only; this one was Southern. Texas, take notice. This is in your future. Brace yourself.

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