Roma: In front of the Ministero delle Politiche Agricole

Dr. Zaius, what are you up to?


Brunerlot?


Don't get excited...It's just an early morning jet-lag joke. Un'scherzo...

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

In Gps We Trust

Rome, Rome, Rome, always the beginning and the end of so many stories. In the recent events, it was the point where we started the circle and finished it.

Coming into Rome from the airport was so much easier than it was the first time; just turned on the GPS-she-devil device and plugged in the hotel address, and 30 minutes later we arrived at the front desk. Not like the time in 1990 when I had my wife, Liz, jump into a cab and I followed her to the hotel. After wandering around the city for two hours.

Driving in Rome is an interesting challenge, one that seems to have become more intense in the last 30 years. Italy, too, has become less civil and angrier on the road. And then there are the motor scooters and two wheeled space invaders that plague today’s Rome. But that’s the way of a city, even one as old as Rome. Wisdom doesn’t come so easily.

The 2008 harvest is underway and in the coming days I’ll be posting notes from what I saw and touched, drank and thought. This year the harvest report centers on Central Italy, with Tuscany and the Maremma on one side and the Marche/Abruzzo on the other, like a teeter-totter between Sangiovese and Montepulciano. Other grapes as well. But we won’t be going off too far into esoterica on this trip, no, this isn’t the time for too much autochthon. This is a time to batten down the hatches and lean out, make it through the present cycle, which is not without its challenges.

I have a friend who is starting an import company right now, and mainly working the NY-east coast. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. But to his credit, he understands that the relationship with the restaurateur is more important than holding the hand of the winemaker. It’s a buyers market, and like my 20 new best friends, wine salesmen in Rome, told me last week, it's all in how you bond with the customer.


Interesting find in a neighborhood that I like to stay in, Parioli. A little spot called La Balestra on the Via Simeto 2/F. Not on anybody’s radar, no reviews, just a great neighborhood spot with good service, clean food, fantastic wine prices. I will post about it later.

Another place, on the other end of the trip, was in Monteporzio Catone, in Frascati country, a place called I Tinelloni, found as a result of a Slow Food recommendation from a book Sausage Paul pressed into my hands before I left. Definitely worth a post as well.

The wine trail led us this year, from Rome up to the Tuscan Coast to Castiglione della Pescaia. We climbed over and into Firenze to meet up with an old friend, and then trekked over to the Marche/Abruzzo coast at San Benedetto del Tronto. A couple of day trips from there, one during a wet afternoon to forage for mushrooms over white tablecloths. Fish on the coast, meat in the hills. And then back to Rome via Monteporzio Catone.

One story. On the last day, we were about 40 km from the airport, with traffic no more than an hour. I set the GPS for the quickest route, not the shortest (I had learned that the hard way when we went from Castiglione della Pescaia to Firenze, over every last hilltop town).

But then we got into the traffic flow, and flow is a kind word, more like a molasses surge, I knew we were going to have a tale if we didn’t miss the plane.

Roman drivers are singular in their ability to ferret out every last drop of pavement in which to claim their driving space. They are aggressive, meaner than a junkyard dog, sometimes not paying attention, and ultimately forgivable in their ability to recognize another who just has to get to the airport on time.

I drove the wrong way on a street to jump in front of a traffic line and get myself back in the direction that the polizia told me to go. I gave people a wave to go in front of me and got the finger by someone behind them because I didn’t give it to them as well. I got honked at mercilessly by an ancient Roman because I was blocking the road, never mind that I had a red light. He had to turn right. Guess the poor old guy had to pee. In any case, the polizia, who just gave me directions, turned their heads away as I crept past the line so the vecchione could get on with his turn. I had scads of bottle rockets, Vespas and other two wheeled insects buzzing all around me, you think I was a pile of oregano in bloom the way they were swarming the car. But I made it through, without a scratch. Two hours later.

What it did to me later, as I was resting in the plane, was to give me the royal boot back to America. “So there you have it Italian Wine Guy, we took care of you one more time. You slept in nice beds, had great food, saw wonderful countryside, and drank delicious wine, from the carafes you love so much to the finest vintages. Now go back home and try to sell some of this stuff. And don’t come back until you do.”

Oh yes, I got my due. And now it’s back to paying my dues.

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

Grapefruit, Eggplant & Montepulciano

From the Archives ~ June 9, 2006

Something that’s been bugging me off and on is words to describe things that are taken from another word which has another context. About once a week I get someone in a sales group or wine shop asking me about the different Montepulciano wines, that "noble" one from Tuscany and the “other” one from some region to the east of Tuscany.

It is part of the distinct charm of the Italian state of mind to give unlike wine similar names. Or anything for that matter. Anyone who has driven in Italy and tried to find a town starting with the name of Colle, Castello, Rocca or Monte will recognize the dilemma. But, after all, it’s Italy and people have been finding their way around, eventually, to the town or the Café or the vineyard. Or not. And then it’s merely a matter of “recognizing” that wherever they have landed, either be it for lunch or a wine tasting or a day in the country, is just “perfetto” . One of my dear friends would say “ottimo”, most favorable. It’s that Italian sense of latitude relative to their compact with happiness.

What did he say? When in Rome…..

So, what’s with the fruits and vegetables? Those who speak English (and Italian) know the difference between grapefruit (pompelmo) and grape (uva). Also the English speaking (and Italians) know the difference between eggplant (melanzana) and egg (uovo). The Italians use different words than the English so there is no confusion. All clear?

But this Montepulciano business is really something that keeps coming up. The folks in Abruzzo say the Tuscans should rename their Vino Nobile and some of the Tuscans tell the folks in Abruzzo, “Hey, we were here first! Get your own name!”

Mary Ewing-Mulligan, Ed McCarthy, the authors of Italian Wine For Dummies, say it best in their book, and I quote, “The confusion is understandable, but these two wines are definitely different wines made from different grape varieties. Vino Nobile is a dry red wine made primarily from the Prugnolo Gentile variety (a type of Sangiovese) around the town of Montepulciano in southeastern Tuscany. Montepulciano d'Abruzzo is also a dry red wine, but made mainly from the Montepulciano variety, which grows in the region of Abruzzo on the Adriatic coast, southeast of Tuscany. The Montepulciano variety is believed to be native to the Abruzzo region, and it has no connection to Sangiovese or to the town of Montepulciano in Tuscany.” That’s as simple and clear an explanation as it gets! Now go and get the book, because there are other nuggets in it.

In trips to Italy I have been really fortunate to spend time in the Abruzzo region and make friends with winemakers there.

There are great memories around the open hearth with vine branches roasting fresh lamb and pork from the macelleria with bottles of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.


Oh, and the people too. One great wine pioneer, Dino Illuminati and his family, stands out in my heart . It was in the town of Controguerra that Abruzzo made Montepulciano theirs. That’s Dino’s town and he’s their Antinori or Mondavi. And he can eat for all three of them. Great guy. Bigger than life. Historical. The stuff great novels are made of.










Now do we have it all sorted out? Vino Nobile di Montepulciano and Montepulciano d’Abruzzo? Eggs and eggplant? Grapes and grapefruit?

What about this just to mess you up? How do the Italians deal with telling the difference with words like uva (grape) and egg (uovo) when they are growing up? Or what about that Calabrian peasant recipe that has a casserole of eggplant with eggs? You get the picture? Confused again? Good.

And that calls for a glass of wine.What shall it be? Maybe something... Montepulciano? Maybe from a Castello? Or a Poggio? Or a Monte? There is a Monti Montepulciano d' Abruzzo. But dont confuse it with the Montori Montepulciano d' Abruzzo, who also happens to be Dino Illuminati's good friend. But we're way beyond confused again. Pop the cork.

Bona Notte!

Links Italian Wine For Dummies
Illuminati Winery & the US Importer info
Elio Monti Winery & the US Importer info
Camillo Montori Winery
Macelleria Photos from Hank's Wonderful Vacation

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

The Meltdown

From the Archives ~ Aug.22, 2007


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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Donnafugata’s "Ben Ryè" 2004 Passito di Pantelleria

Salvatore Murana "Mueggen" Moscato di Pantelleria

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


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

Life at the Table

From the Archives ~ Dec.12, 2007

Why do we eat out? That was the question I was asking myself today at lunch. I was in a little Italian-styled restaurant where we had convinced the owners to do a progressive wine list. Unfortunately they hired a manager, still wet behind the ears, who thinks he knows better. “The people can’t find the wines they are looking for; we need to make it easy for them.” We were – by arranging the wines in the order of their styles so they wouldn’t have to depend on the constant turn of wait staff and managers who have no real life experience in these matters.

Young people with old minds – old people with young thoughts – the argument about people wanting something more traditional is just not correct. If that were the case, this same style of wine list, which we put into use in the most traditional Italian restaurant over 10 years ago and which worked magnificently, well it would have failed there and then. But it didn’t. So what we have here is a failure to communicate.

The picture above was shot in 1969 on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, California, in what is still known as Café Mediterraneum. It was a magic moment for me seeing the light coming though the windows and on to the table.

The table, that one ring circus where it all takes place; food, wine, romance, engagements, break ups, life and death.

All through the world we break our stride and stop. Today a friend and I just took the time to talk about our world, our families, our time on earth, and yes a little of the wine business. With this new crop of ill prepared restaurateur, it gives us much to ponder over; lots of mulch for the fields in which we still must toil.

The Italians have been wonderful for all of us. Who would have thought a simple plate of pasta would give so much pleasure day after day, throughout the generations? A little flour, an egg, some water. A little tomato or maybe some porcini. And cheese, my heroin.

Not just the Italians though. One day on a Good Friday in Frankfurt, we happened to walk by their Wall Street, the Börse. Outside, tents had been erected and impromptu wine bars were pouring Riesling and Muller-Thurgau to the businessmen and women. What a grand revelation – the leaders of business for one of the strongest industrial and economic powers, lollygagging outside, talking to each other on the eve of a holiday. Drinking wine, not making money. How civilized, I mused, how very wonderful.

The fabulous city of slow food, Eataly, in Torino. Table after table of the different stages of eating, with people, families, sitting together, enjoying prosciutto or gelato. The table, always the table.

A picnic in Perigord. A visit to the farmers market and a wine shop or two. A roasted chicken, some potatoes, and green beans. And red wine from Cahor. A light breeze through the trees that were shading and cooling us, and people we just met were strangers no more. Today one of the couples emailed me from New York. They were at Babbo and were wondering about a Traminer on the list. Not some traditional, tired wine list. They had their hands on a list with spunk, with balls. For lovers and fighters, with passion and purpose.

It doesn’t always have to be life changing. After all, it’s a meal, something we do thousands of times in our lives. But it needn’t be mundane. We have plenty of choice in the matter, how we nourish ourselves through the days of our lives. Sometime it might be a simple freshly baked loaf of bread and some cheese. And of course the wine. It could be burgers and Brunello or it could be Fontina and Fumin. Or it could be a bottle of cognac and a lifetime of stories.

But restaurateurs take notice – we are traveling more – we are expecting more from you and your concepts. It is too easy to make a simple, wholesome meal at home. We aren’t always looking for some epiphany over Peekytoe crab. We just want you to treat our future memories with the proper care and feeding.

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

Heart and Soil

From the Archives ~ Sept.13, 2006

This week I have been immersed in Piedmont. Barolo, Castiglione Falletto, Serralunga, Cuneo, Barbaresco and on. Sorting out some information for the young sales force. This link between humans and the land that makes one wine taste one way and another, over on a hill 2 miles away, taste another way. The Italian wine trail ends today in the Langhe, but starts in the Marche.

15 years ago I landed in a little town, Matelica, to taste the wines of Aldo Cifola from La Monacesca. On that visit we were looking at his new vineyard, Camerte, where his Merlot and Sangiovese vines were newly planted. That will be another story for another day. What happened on that day, and how it leads to Piedmont, is something totally out of the linear way of seeing things. They really have nothing and everything to do with each other.

The inspiration for this came from a photograph I took back then at the estate, of the La Monacesca caretaker and his sons. After a wine tasting, in a little room, with prosciutto he prepared from his happy pigs, they brought out the accordions. Now I’m a sucker for accordions, used to own a couple of them till I donated them to some missionaries in Central America. Maybe it’s the um-pap-pah music of Calabria or the Zydeco of our beloved southwestern Louisiana nearby. If there’s an accordion nearby, count me in. Accordions, the mobile musical terroir machines, for me.

To see this father and his sons, now grown up, let’s back up. The food was raised at his farm: The grapes were made into wine, the prosciutto, the bread and so on. The children were raised here, too. Heart and soil. That’s Italy in a New York second.

This man and his wife took on the stewardship of a land he didn’t even own. They are caretakers. Correction, they are caregivers. From the dirt to the denim, the family was infused with caring, for their vines and their children. The Camerte vineyard, when I first saw it, I wanted to lie right down and die in it. And that’s not a morbid wish, please understand me. I wanted to be a part of what was going on there, on a molecular level!

There are other occurrences. Italy is rampant with them.
In Calabria , in the Veneto .

Three years before that trip to the Marche, I was looking at some newly planted vines in Barbaresco. The area was called Montestefano, and the family there was quite excited about this vineyard that would be ready in a five or so years. Five years! We’ve gone through a mate or two, two cars, two houses, a stereo system, two computer upgrades and 3 cellular phones in that time. And for what? Those vines on those steep hills, patiently working their way up, easing the love from the dirt into the vine, year after year, grape after grape. And what do we understand about that, back in the meeting rooms? What do we need to know about that, how do we convey that sense of connection to our fledgling wine-drinkers back in the U.S.of A.?

Look at the way the youth of Italy are exposed to the traditions, but even more important, the love for the obligation to share in the caring for the land and the fruits of one’s labors. For the young boys in Matelica, it first started with a baby pig. The young sommelier, for her, it started walking with her grandmother, picking chestnuts in the Langhe. It grew in them, and they grew into it. Not another new Game Boy or another new pair of designer jeans. Not just that. Time, the influence of the daily communion with the earth.

That’s what makes it so difficult to help our wine industry professionals and the clients. I can’t put that on a sheet of paper with a score and a good price. I try. But it seems so much less than the inspiration that I feel when I take an hour and think about it, reflect on it. Question is, as it has been for some time, how do we get folks to slow their world down to take a peek into this wonderful Emerald City of Wine? How do we impart this in a meaningful way, to the person who decides which wines go on the rack at the wine shop, to the neighbor in the new house who wants to know more about Italian wine? And how do we get it to stick?

This ain’t plug and play. This is day by day…really hard work. But it is so rewarding when, at the end of the day, one is drawing a glass of Nebbiolo or Barbera and looking at some incredible site across the hill (even if it is only on this page or in your mind). The neighbor’s house may not be new and improved, and the internet connection might still be dial-up. That’s right. Very, very right.

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

All Roads Lead To...

From the Archives ~ Jan. 2, 2008

My adult introduction to Italy was August 15, 1971. I had decided on my twentieth birthday in July that I would go to Italy by myself. So I bought a round trip ticket from Los Angeles to Rome for $900.00, a tidy sum then.

When I landed in Rome on that hot August day, and decided to try walking from the airport to the city, all it took was to get as far as the giant statue of Leonardo da Vinci, to convince me, backpack and all, that I should probably catch a bus.

Once I arrived at the Stazione Termini in Rome I decided to look for a place to exchange dollars for lire. Impossible, it was a national holiday, Ferragosto. It was also a Sunday. To make matters worse, Nixon had just devalued the dollar. I walked around the neighborhood of the train station, found a little pensione on the Via Palestro near the university and somehow managed to talk the landlady into letting me have a room.

I was excited and a little bit jet lagged, so I set my gear down and decided on a little nap. Some hours later I awoke to the sounds of an Italian television program in the kitchen. I thought I had slept for days, but it was probably 4 or 5 hours, just enough to keep me from getting on Italian time.

The kind landlady made me a plate of pasta and some vegetables, and offered a glass of red wine. How wonderful it all tasted. Here I was in a strange boarding house in a big city with people I didn’t know, who were treating me like family. It was a moment that really made me see Italy and Italians through a lens that I still sometimes use. We were only 25 years away from the liberation of Italy during World War II; perhaps the landlady took pity on the young American. It wasn’t that much money, I think with half pension it was about 1,500 lire, or $2.50 a day. My room I would have to share if someone else came in. But it never happened that anyone else came to that pensione in August.

Walking around Rome during the day would be my introduction to Italy. And I walked everywhere, with my cameras, photographing everything in black and white, Tri-X film, with my Canon rangefinder cameras. I was living the dream of a young man to be a street photographer, and Rome was my canvas.

From the Villa Borghese to the Fontana di Trevi, the Sistine Chapel to the Baths of Caracalla, there was no backdrop that I wouldn’t shoot in the blistering heat and humidity of Rome in August.

In that time the city was quiet, many people out of town in cooler places. Just a few tourists and the workforce of Rome, who stayed behind to keep the city running. Many shops were closed for the month, but there was enough life in the Eternal City to get a feel for a place that humans have inhabited for thousands and thousands of years.

Even though I don’t get to Rome so often these days, I have an affection for the city that took me in as a young man, without lire and without being able to speak much of the language. I had my Michelin guide, my cameras and my desire to learn about the country of my grandparents. This would not be my last trip to Italy, but rather the beginning of many visits to Italy and to Rome.





Notes on the photos - they were all taken in Rome in 1971 with my Canon rangefinders.

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

Fuga Dalla *Fattorie Cube*

Will return September 24. In the meantime, enjoy selections from the archives.



* Escape from the Cube Farm

Brunello is Dead. Long Live Brunello!

This has been a long day. A very long day. First of all, happy birthday to Gia Galli and to David Burnett. Also buon anima for Eugenio Spinozzi, now three years gone from earth.

Today started at 6:30AM in preparation for a flight to Houston, and then a drive to Galveston, for an industry tasting. More like a huge showcase for anything and everything in the wine beer, water and spirits industry. Lots of scantily clad women showing lots of skin and very little fat. Racy cars displaying caffeinated vodka. And a whole bunch of colleagues showing their stuff to their willing clients. A little bit old home week, a little hustle, a lot of BS’ing, and very little damage done. A late evening flight back home and here we are sitting up trying to figure out what just happened. Probably something for another post, though there won't be a lot of those in the next few weeks. It is harvest time in Tuscany and Italy and one must go prepare for the vendemmia.

In the last week there has been an inordinate amount of chatter about the state of Brunello. My own feelings are that, what we witnessed this week, was the death of Brunello as we know it.

Anyone who has read On the Wine Trail in Italy knows that I am not just saying this to create controversy and drive traffic to this site. I couldn't care less. There are 10,000+ who read regularly, that is good enough for me. But I do think something happened this week that when we look back it will be seen as a transition for the history of this wine, Brunello.

First, let me just say this. I could care less about the gossip about who is doing what with their grapes, grown or purchased. There are some traditionalists who have their point of view, some of them are good people and some of them are toxic. And there are some “outsiders” who preach change and some of them know what they are talking about and some of them are in it for a buck. There has been so much inaccurate and misleading reporting, blogging, suppositions and allusions. Give me a break, who the hell really knows? Some folks write me with info and all kinds of verbal iterations. To what end? Where has this taken us? Italy has a political situation that makes the American political log-jam look like the Indy 500 race. I have even heard Machiavelli's name invoked, the original gangster. Others have harkened back to the early days of Berlusconi and Mussolini. With such a fecund past it is difficult not to look back. But it is a fruitless crusade, for we only have forward gear in this vehicle, and so we must press on.

All through this week we have had the procession of winemakers from Italy making their post-Ferragosto pilgrimage to America. One player, Stephane Schaeffer, export director from Argiano, was in town towards the end of the last week. The last time I saw Stephane it was during Vinitaly in Verona and he was heading into Bottigleria Corsini, the “other” wine bar that we were frequenting, having a glass of Prosecco. Stephane was doing a wine dinner for some important clients and he was carrying wine inside. He had a furrowed brow, not the look of someone who was comfortable. But why should he have been? News was circulating all over Vinitaly about the problems in Montalcino. Argiano had a bulls-eye painted on its front door. Someone wanted blood.

A month or so later Argiano did what I thought at the time was a dramatic and slightly silly thing. They declassified their Brunello, calling it Il Duemilatre, and sent it out into the world. It was still the wine they call Brunello. But they were taking a detour around the political.

Now it looks like genius. Who cares what you call it? We in America have other things pressing for our attention and we like wine that taste good. California prepared us for all kinds of names of wines. Opus 1 is a perfect example. In those days (1979) it was considered suicide to not call a Cabernet-based wine a Cabernet. Now we have a diversity of names, and the strong survive.

Argiano took a risk; I’d like to think it was calculated. It was quite brilliant. If Brunello as we know it is now dead, Argiano has taken the high road out of hell.

Now let me say this. I do not care what grapes are in their wines. And I am not saying this in a Napoleonic-guilty-till-proven-innocent way. I am not fazed by this current ongoing tantrum-cum-soap opera that just won’t let us think about anything else in the world of Italian wine. It’s like Montalcino has hired Fox to run their press for the world. So much tragedy, so many car chases, so much schadenfreude. Enough doom and gloom already.


Back to Argiano. We did a tasting for 60 people here in fly-over country and they loved the wines. Not one wine was called a Brunello di Montalcino and it didn’t seem to matter. Sure there was some discussion from corners of the room by enthusiasts. But try as he did, what could Stephane say? I don’t know. The investigation is ongoing. Some people are still being questioned. Some wines are still in limbo. We shall see. In the meantime, Argiano has moved on.

The wines:

2006 Rosso di Montalcino – for me one of the most enjoyable wines of the night. I cringe when I hear that the Biondi-Santi camp disagrees with the Gaja camp about proposing two different kinds of Brunello, as reported on Vinowire, “One...would be reserved for “artisanal” producers... who continue to make their wines with 100% Sangiovese grapes. The other would be used by “large” producers who require more “elasticity” in their production, producers whose fruit is sourced from vineyards that do not possess “pedoclimatic [soil and climate] conditions” suitable for the cultivation of superior Sangiovese." I flinch because it seems that the Biondi-Santi camp is saying, not let’s not make two kinds of Brunello, but let’s change the Rosso di Montalcino to reflect more of the second style sense. I think that would be unfortunate because Rosso di Montalcino is a wine for those of us who don’t always have the pocketbooks of the elite-economic class. We keep losing the ability to enjoy the wines we grew up on, those of us old enough to remember Petrus and Gaja and Biondi-Santi. This Rosso from Argiano was perfect – fruit, balance, mouth feel, it has that typical sensation that a Tuscan red can have in its youth: slightly astringent and earthy, like walking in a forest after a light rain. I’d hate to lose access to wine like that.

As an aside, the first picture on this post is of Lisini. Stephane says folks usually think Biondi-Santi is the oldest Brunello estate. He says no, that claim belongs to Lisini. I have a bottle of the 1975 Riserva settling to be opened this year. Fortunately Beatrice didn't crack it open, though it seems she threatened to. Good girl.

The 2003 Il Duemilatre- identical wine to what they had previously bottled as their 2003 Brunello, but this time no mention of the appellation. Now a Toscana IGT and, for the vintage, reflecting more of the spirit and soul of Argiano than many of their neighbors “Brunelli.”

The 2006 “NC” (Non Confunditor) - touted as the wine that Argiano is looking to spread around as their entry level wine. NC also is the initials of the proprietress, Noemi Cinzano. They mix it up here, Sangiovese with Syrah, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. Argiano hasn’t been afraid of those varietals and Tachis hasn’t discouraged them from seeking expression from their soil with these grapes. At first I thought this wine was a marketing gimmick and then I drank it several times and it grew on me. Remember, I am first a Californian, then an Italian and then a Texan. I didn’t grow up drinking Blue Nun or White Zinfandel. So this wine eventually recast itself in my vinous memory as a pleasant one. I can be persuaded by sybaritic virtues too.

The 2004 Solengo – And older gentleman in the crowd, now beginning his octogenarian ascent, called me over to his table and asked me what I thought of this wine. It sells for close to $100 in the retail world. I looked at him and told him it wasn’t for him. “Why,” he asked. “Because you have enough wine to drink in your life and you don’t have time for this wine.” Tough love, baby, but he got the gist of it. This is a wine for men with testosterone and money to burn. And for the women reading this, this is a lusty wine that pushes your power buttons. Go for it. Climb the mountain and tell us all about it.

The night ended with a few of us hightailing it to one of the fashionable wine bars in town, the kind that screams Dallas, with roving bands of long legged blond beauties, blackberry’s in hand. Looking out over the twilight Dallas skyline we sipped a Priorat Blanc and a Bordeaux Rose as if to say to the wine gods, we have had enough red wine tonight, we need no more of that. We have been to the mountain top. This week we buried the old moribund Brunello and we crowned a new King. Or so we have imagined. We shall see. Sooner or later.

Galveston Beach Sept. 7, 2008

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