It doesn’t seem like eight years has passed since we entered the new millennium in 2001, but it has. It was the beginning of a very difficult time; my wife Liz passed away in Feb 2001, the political process started to change and the world changed with it. September 11 showed up on the world’s doorstep, and many of us have been taking it one day at a time, hoping for better days to come.As I was jogging this evening by the high school, a speaker announced over the stadium address system, that there were refreshments in the concession stand. He described the available items: candy, popcorn, hotdogs, and then he said three little words, “for your pleasure.” It sounded like a throwback in time when things were so much simpler and in its uncomplicated message I thought back over the last 40 years and what some of our cinematic dreamers and Italian wine visionaries thought the world would be like in 2001. And while it sure wasn’t all that they projected in the movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey, it sure has been a heck of a trip. So, at this time I’d like to jump into the WABAC machine, back to 2001 and see what wines I would have predicted for the past, here in the safety of the future. Of course the wines are from the Italian trail, and beyond.
Ever since the time I attempted to simultaneously sell a Tuscan Novello and a Vernaccia di Serrapatrona, that would have been about this time in 1984, I have wondered why Italian wines chose me. Not just me, but for some of the hard stuff, I sure have had my share of those assignments. Driving around with a delivery van full of baby Sangiovese alongside a quirky, dry, foamy red wine made by a madman in the hills of the Marche. What was I thinking then? Even now it sounds bizarre. Don Quixote, only this time we weren’t looking for windmills. We were looking for space stations for these special travelers. And in honor of those two wines, in the 2001 of our little story here, we have an homage: Novello Di Ascoli, a modern wine about reincarbonation.
Chianti: 2001 was a little project that went beyond Chianti 2000. I’m not sure if people realize the first Italian in space was Sangiovese. A little known experiment resulted in growing and harvesting the grapes aboard the International space station. Limited release, only about 20 cases, hydroponically grown. It was intended to test the ideas of extra-terroirestrial winegrowing. It is an amazing red wine, without the pull of gravity and ratings. No, only the influence of the astro-agronomist-winemaker, an American of Italian descent. It challenges the limitations of the Italian wine trail that we terrestrials put on it. Buckminster Fuller said, “Whatever nature lets you do is natural.” I wish all of you could have tried it with me. But alas, a quick trip to Washington D.C., some time ago, was the only opportunity any of us will have. But there will be more. Watch for a sparkling wine to come, made in zero gravity, called Zero-Zero. No dirt on their space-boots, but lots of ardent advances orbiting above us.
Down in the Cilento National Park, there is a colony of Italians who speak Esperanto. They escaped the area around Vesuvius many years ago and decided to leave behind their dialect. But they took their grapes with them and started making a red wine for the new millennium, to coalesce their past with their future. It is a cult wine on the islands around Naples and further south. I have only seen and had it once, from a private cellar in Panarea. The wine reminded me of the reds made by Galardi. I have heard people say they have traded two bottles of Le Pin for one bottle of “Vulkano” Campania Ruga. I have tried both wines. I would say two bottles of Le Pin for one from the Esperantani’s is a fair deal.
About 11 years ago, in a place near Colfiorito, there was a terrible earthquake. When they got to digging out some of the buildings, rescue workers found a lab book from a vineyardist, describing a project code-named “Il Grifi”. The project, like its name, had as its goal to combine three grapes to make a new wine. Here the vineyardist had been researching, via recombinant DNA, the creation of a wine that had as its parents, Sangiovese, Sagrantino and Montepulciano. And yes, for many years in Umbria and the Marche, winemakers have blended these grapes together to make various wines. William Sylvester, who starred in the Stanley Kubrick film, had made a film in Italy and was fascinated with this area and with wine. So he funded this little known experimentalist. Italy loves to resuscitate ancient things: statues, grapes, legends. In this case, as we headed back to 2001, we discovered that the wine had finally been made, in minute quantities. An amazing wine, combining the ephemeral verve of Sangiovese, the tannic and alcoholic power of the Sagrantino and the lubriciousness of the Montepulciano. Joy upon joy, an almost perfect wine in time for the new age. But alas, only one year was made and only 1113 bottles. They were mostly served at an autumn Sagra in Colfiorito for the special red potato named after the area, which makes the most wonderful base for the local gnocchi. The wine disappeared into memory, along with the best gnocchi I had ever had. The wine? Sangrapulciano.
Two wines, Navicella and Passeggiata, were “good soul” efforts to make right the promise to reach the moon before the end of the decade. In the Italian’s efforts, though, it managed to arrive about 30 years later. End of decade, end of century, end of millennium, hey it’s only time, no?
Navicella was the wine intended for the first course, something from the aquaculture tanks. Passeggiata was created for the second stage, more experimental than the first wine. It was a sci-fi way of twinning tradition (Navicella) with innovation (Passeggiata) and for those who experienced the wine, I've been told it was a magical. Again, this was eight years ago when the Italians were embracing the next big thing. Now we are earthbound again, arguing this time over tradition vs. innovation. There are a few of these wines available on the auction circuits. A large enological school in Northeastern Italy was in incubating site for these wines. The Lega Nord, and a then unknown party operative, put an end to it. That little known operative would someday, in the future, join with Berlusconi and attempt to influence events in a larger and more important wine producing region, with near cataclysmic results.
Out last find caused a little flap among the retro-futurists in the room. Paraspruzzi was proposed to bridge the workers in the fields, those who tromp through the primal slime in their waders, with the elevated shapers of fashion. Originally the marketers wanted to call it “Chiaccerone”. Another on the board wanted to name it “Lo Scroccone”. But it was felt that normal wine lovers wouldn’t know how to pronounce it. Not that Paraspruzzi is that easy, but it sounded like the celebrity photographers who were known to frequent all the “in” places looking for those same nine beautiful people to snap up.This was actually one of the most successful of the wines; it had a run of three vintages. Later as it was being packaged to sell to one of the large Euro-spirit-lux corporations, there were a string of lawsuits. As it turned out, everyone spent more on lawyers than the plan could ever return in ten years, so the project was jettisoned. A real shame, because the wine had a bona fide grip on the cognoscenti of the Italian wine industry. The bloggers never found out about it, this was buried deep in Puglia under the cover of an ancient Masseria. The remaining wine fetches a pretty Euro.
There lies my time and space odyssey of 2001, following the wines of the future back to the past. Submitted for your pleasure.
Post #400
Once upon a time, Italian wine importers tried desperately to sell their juice to America. They went to any length to sell wine. Once such effort was to make these decorative fired clay vessels shaped like donkeys and elephants and color them up real bright and perky and then hang a little thingie around the neck with the slogans, “Vote Republican” or “Vote Democratic.” The Italians were very good about making sure every party had a mascot filled with bright and sassy red wine, usually from Emilia-Romagna. Probably a Sangiovese or some high yield red wine that could be utilized for little or no cost. The clay figures now are worth more empty as a collectable, although some of the ones in my collection still have wine in them.
The donkey is a perky, happy-go-lucky character. He makes you think he might be your best friend who would never let you down.
The elephant is a little more self-reassured, standing on his hind legs for his pleasure, not yours, and deigning not to make eye contact. But he is an elephant decorated in such a strange way, almost like those Indian Ganesha statues that they put into the Ganges every year during the Hindu festivals.
These and many other characters were brought in by an importer who made a lot of money bringing in wine from Italy, first from Emilia-Romagna, then from Tuscany. Nowadays, we wouldn’t take an importer seriously if they tried to market Italian wines in this way. But you have to remember it was barely 15 years after a devastating war. Remember 1993? That doesn’t seem like so long ago, does it? Well in 1960 that was the situation and to make matters worse, Italy wasn’t taken seriously as a wine producer of any consequence. That was the purview of France. So what do the Italians, and their American importers do? They make some silly wine casks that represent the political parties in America and schlep them over filled with some inconsequential red wine. Very cute. But not very serious. And now so very kitsch.
Bruna Giacosa and Cindy McCain, what is going on here? Is it deer in the headlights or maybe a little too much time under the sunlamp? I’m sure both of these women are loved by someone, if not just by their parents, both whom are alcohol industry giants in their own way. One in the beer business and the other in the Barolo business. These girls know their way around a curling iron and a blow dryer. The only question remaining: Do you go for “Drinkability” or “Age-ability?”
Joe Biden and Bruno Giacosa – both proud fathers. Joe, of course had to go it alone, with a little help from his remaining family. Bruno went about carving a neat little niche with his stable of mighty fine reds. Bruno has a daughter who is succeeding him in running the business. Joe has a son in politics, so there is a possibility of dueling dynasties. But aside from the vague resemblance and the serious demeanor, what else do these guys have in common? I’m not sure Joe has ever Jonesed for a Dolcetto. And I rather doubt Bruno craves commuting on Amtrak. So these gents are as polarized as most of the people in this country are from each other. The only remaining question is: Do you prefer single vineyard wines from Piedmont or a single payer health care system?
Sophia Loren and Eleanora Brown and Michelle Obama and Jill Biden – We’re doing a 
Marcello Mastroianni and Barack Obama. I doubt if they really have anything in common other than liking cigarettes and posing in a pensive manner with their hands on their heads. Mastroianni had a nickname, Snaporaz, and Obama’s nickname is Barry. I prefer Snaporaz.
I’ve been passing an evening thinking about the Italian man and his obsession with women. Older men with younger women, younger men with older women, young men with young women, mature men with mature women. You name the combination; there are scores of Italian men this very moment obsessing on a woman somewhere.
Look at a young couple as they are falling in love. What do they do? They linger over a bottle of wine, or two. Lubricant or catalyst, wine has a place in the course of romance.
The first step is bubbly. Be it Champagne or Franciacorta, Prosecco or Cava, nothing succeeds faster than bubbles. Our committee has chosen a rosé Franciacorta for the sparkling representative. And while Champagne is ultimately a very classy choice, Franciacorta suggests subtlety and the slow dance to the “chambre”.
For the second act, my consulting group suggested we move towards red wine, higher in alcohol and a little headier stuff. The dew is off the lily, the excitement of newness is behind us now. And while we must still act like we are interested in romance, are we not men? We want one thing. Always. One way or another. Or so the women always tell us. Embrace the archetype, is the counsel of the committee. And nothing embraces the archetype better than a bottle of Chianti. We’re in stage two, not time to bring out the big guns, the Aglianicos and the Amarones. Just a little classico, sans fiasco.
Act three, we wander into la donna è mobile country. Time for power, richness, whelm and overwhelm. Long arias, lengthy and more time-consuming. So we will be needing something from Piemonte. A blend of Nebbiolo and Barbera or possibly even some of the dreaded Cabernet. Coppo in Piemonte makes a red wine called Alter Ego, a Cabernet/Barbera red which is plush and concentrated. More than a sipping wine, so have some food for the poor dear, don’t starve her. Don’t worry; there will be plenty of time for Brachetto and dessert, after midnight. Just let Verdi work his magic along with Coppo’s concoction.
Too late for an overture, but maybe time for a sorbetto. Freshen things up a bit. Spruce up the place. Nothing too sweet, maybe slightly bitter, something that will move into the romantic realm, but not too blatant. Time for a white wine? I would go with a Fiano with a little age on it, that way you could be a little philosophical while you are spinning your web around your little drosophila. And with something like a Fiano, or even a higher level Soave, there will be ample alcohol to divert the object of your attention from the main objective. All the while the parties are experiencing a wonderful wine and so if the finale doesn’t result in what you had planned, all is not lost. But most likely you will succeed. And still not veer too far off the wine trail in Italy.
Sometimes it just seems that it will never lead to what you have been desiring, like going to see La Bohème and arriving to the opera on the night they were staging Gilbert and Sullivan. But if you should persevere and be patient, then you will be rewarded. Life, love and loss, all part of the cuvee of a grand wine. For this act, we thought it could only be staged with a sultry Amarone. And not a small player but something that makes a statement, like a Viviani or a Le Ragose, Cavalchina or if possible, a Dal Forno. One in the group thought a night with a bottle of Amarone could persuade even the most bitter and cold-hearted woman. Not that any in that group would ever attempt to scale a peak in the depths of the Underworld. Call it overkill to overshoot the mark and reach the goal. Sound cynical? Cold? Calculating? Were not talking vodka martinis, that would be cold and calculating. No, Amarone is powerfully persuasive but classically romantic.
Wild passionate one night stand? Bizet’s Carmen and a powerful and volatile Sicilian red, what else? Something like the Lamuri from Tasca or the Cadetto from La Lumia. This is wine to drink in a moment of passion before the sun rises, and to be gone before she awakens. Brandishing swords and swashbuckling and a climactic though far too soon lowering of the curtains.
Next, mixing it up. Some in our group had variations on a theme in mind, so to propitiate them we team-worked the wine for that occasion. Sexy but not vulgar. One of us really wanted to propose a southern dessert wine, a passito. Another suggested keeping it a little lighter, maybe a moscato d’asti. But neither of those ideas really clicked. And then one of the geniuses in this brain trust hit upon the idea of a little known white wine from Lazio. Coenobium, a blend of Verdicchio, Grechetto and Trebbiano, organically farmed and made into wine by Cistercian nuns. Sexy? Oh yes, this is a white wine masquerading as a red wine of little color, a pigmentless wine with plenty of stroke. Did I really say that? And while there is the monastic craft of the wine, there is a communal pleasure that the wine delivers. Nuff said? Now I’m really going to hell.
Where is Puccini when you really need him? Waiting in the wings, for the finale with that sweet little bottle of wine? But this is no time for Moscato or just any passito. This might be the last time, so why not take down a bottle of the stuff legends are made of? I will need to go back to one of my posts and plagiarize myself (and Coleridge).
Back in the 1980’s and 90’s I invested in a personal hedge fund. At the time there wasn’t any overriding strategy other than perhaps a hedonistic one. I started out with little investments here and there, and one thing led to another. A little trading, some long-term holdings, some quick-turn-around buys. All this over a period of the past 20 years.
Lastly, I bought a bunch of Port, thinking 1990-1994 would be good wines to drink when they are 20 years old. The oldest of that bunch are starting to get close. I am particularly fond of Quinta Vesuvio for several reasons. It was one of the quintas farthest up the Douro. I had probably the best 
So as with everything else, it appears to be that way as well with wine. Big, bold, powerful, rich. Pre-recession fantasies craving for that in a wine which is just out of our grasp for other longings.
That same day I was invited to dinner at a “French” restaurant of some repute. Not many of those around these parts any more. I was asked to pick the wine. Now usually there is a token wine on the list for the wine lover who just doesn't want to spring for Silver Oak or Corton. As I looked around the dining room, in an alto-borghese neighborhood, I noticed people were ordering wine as they were perusing the food menu. Odd, but not altogether unusual in a mid-western town on the Big Night Out. Cabernet was king in this room, even though the food was tempered to the tastes of a Burgundian or Loire or Rhone setting. After seven very difficult minutes the folks at my table were getting impatient with me. My inner Alice was fuming; there was nothing of interest on this wine list. Finally after some peer pressure, I ordered a (negociant) Beaune. A 2004. For $95. With some trepidation. Where was a Gigondas or a Crozes-Hermitage? Some wonderful Julienas or Chiroubles? Surely they are available; I see them on the printouts from the various distributors. Wine that would go so well with the fois gras or the duck or the veal or the scallops.
Just as the $250,000 Bentley was parked proudly in front of the establishment, so would it be expected that we would be plunking down $250 for a Caymus Special Select on our tables? After all, half the men in the room had parked their trophy wives (or goomadas) next to them in the plush velvety seats.
In these times, when so many of us are being compelled to look at some of the decisions we have made, as if we get another 10 or 15 minutes before reality sets in, we attempt to take one more shot at the titanic illusion. Subtlety is admission of defeat, bleacher seats, a used economy car. No, let’s take one more huff, one more puff, and see if we can blow our friends away with an outdated view of conspicuous consumption veiled as connoisseurship.
It’s like the captain of a luxury ship that is sinking, but he has promised to stay on board until the end. And then when everybody who can get off safely does and they are floating away in their lifeboats, while no one is noticing, on the other side of the doomed boat, a skiff is being prepared to deliver the schifo to a far and safe shore.
Is it just me, or are we smack-dab in the middle of topsy-turvy times? I gotta tell you, it’s exciting, exhilarating and a jolt of terrificante in my espresso. Really a great time to be engaged in whatever it is that takes you to the top, fires you up, makes you feel the breeze in your face, the cold, biting wind and the last of the setting sun as we head away from summer. And with all this excitement there’s this slightly disorienting facet that has one looking to recalibrate and check for balance. Not. 
Like our social and political circuses that surround us, so the world of wine, and Italy, really seem to be in sync with this slightly out of register skew to things. Is this merely lucid dreaming or are the bathing beauties of Tuscany and Alto-Adige and Campania really vying for our attention? Or are they merely engaged in some kind of commercial cat-fight for our hearts and dollars? Happiness is a warm warehouse.
In the world in which I live, there isn’t a day that doesn’t go by that I don’t get a note or three from some Italian wine company wanting to get onto the Ark. The smaller companies don’t have the capital, the ability to pay their bills. Everybody is trying to fit their animals on our ship. We are desirable, like this is some kind of beauty pageant. Hey folks, winter is coming, time to put the swimsuits in the drawer. Pass the grappa and cuddle up on a couch somewhere and find something to do. Not the time to plant tomatoes.
Say cheese?
