Italian Family Sundays ~ The Golden Age

From the Archives ~ Jan. 21, 2007

Yesterday I was driving to the older part of town to visit a friend who was in the hospital. He has been a mentor to me, and as I was nearing the facility, I saw the old street where my dad and his family had lived more than 90 years ago. The picture above was taken there, 1313 Hall Street, Dallas, Texas, where my dad was born. The house is gone. All that remains of his original family is his sister, my aunt Mary. She's the little baby in my grandmother's arms.
My friend in the hospital was asleep, but he didn’t look well. He is dying. I know the look, the sound, the smell. If it were a wine, I would describe it thus: pale and a bit cloudy. The bouquet has faded with a light scent of dried rose petals and ripe, aged Asiago. In the flavors there is a little tinge of acid, the tannins are all gone, the fruit is fleeting, and the finish is swift.

Hopefully, my friend's will be as well. For his sake.

It had been raining, and the streets were damp and saturated. It reminded me of Ireland, of a hopeless and miserable Dublin after a night of drinking too much Guinness and too little sleep. Cold, dank, unredeemable.

I was near my friend's wine store and hadn’t eaten all day (it was 2 p.m.), so I stopped in to get a sandwich, and ended up working the floor.

The store was crowded, and Sinatra was crooning over the speakers. A young man came up to me and asked me about the Italian Club. I gave him the requisite information and encouraged him to stop in at one of the Wednesday wine tastings they are starting to do. Then he reached out his hand to shake mine. My hand was bleeding from a boxcutter that had slipped when I was arranging some wine case stacks. I didn't even know I had cut myself. All in a day's work, even if it is a Saturday. Or a Sunday. Grab some tape, cover the cut and back to arranging bottles and straightening shelf-talkers.

In the past, we didn’t need an Italian Club. We had the Family. On Sundays like today, my family would spend the day together, eating, drinking, carousing at the beach or in a vineyard somewhere, in Sicily, Dallas, Los Angeles.

My dad and his dad would hang out together. My son is in Vegas, working. My dad and his dad are gone. It’s Sunday again, and I’m sitting in my room writing about something that doesn’t exist anymore.

My dad and his dad were in business together, for a while. I don’t think my father liked that too much. Probably my grandfather wasn’t too clued in on his son’s aspirations. I think my dad probably wanted to be some kind of artist, maybe an actor. He certainly ended up in the right place for it, Los Angeles in the 1930’s. The golden age of American cinema. But my dad cobbled, and my grandfather acquired real estate, and the ship sailed on. E la nave’ va.

Once, when my grandfather had made a pile of money, he loaded his young family up and sailed back to Palermo for a while. He was now an American, and while he was going back to Italy for a while, he could never stay there indefinitely. He had crossed over into the American dream. He was making it big. In the picture he wasn’t more than 24 years old, but the opportunities that he had reached for paid off early. My son is now 30 years old. I wonder if the opportunities for his generation will ever afford him a chance for a good life. It doesn’t seem as bright now. Warmer, yes. Brighter, no.

When my mom and dad were married in 1936, they took their Ford roadster up the California coast. They were building the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. My parents were 21 years old, hopeful for happiness in their future and their children’s future. For their honeymoon, they tooled up Coast Highway 1 into a world we can only dream about now.

The Great Depression was receding, and war was a few years off. It was a moment to enjoy all that the possibility of life had to offer.

On those Sundays leading up to those years, they would spend sun-drenched days at the beach with their Wise Guy uncles and their Hollywood girlfriends. They were “A” listing through life, the Golden Age of the American Dream.
Cigarettes didn’t cause cancer, yet. Diseases were being conquered. The atom was being harnessed. Seat belts weren’t necessary. Front doors needn’t be locked. Out in the San Fernando Valley and Escondido and Cucamonga, the family would picnic in the vineyards. Note the happy faces and the glasses of wine.
My dad with some of the many women in his family. His Aunt Mary, his sister (my aunt) Mary, Josie and Cuccia, Tootsie and Anna, and Rosemary and on. So pristine in the simplicity of their happiness. Wine, women and song. And food, what great food. Local, fresh, not microwaved, not from a can. California, the Golden State in a golden age.
My mom and dad, with riding boots. Chances are, Dad made them. How much my son looks like him. I now am the age my father was when I wondered what it would be like to be his age. I think I might be happier at this age than he was, but his youth sure looked good from this vantage point. And my mom, the classic Italian beauty. She’s almost 93 and still pretty fired-up about life and living. Thank God she’s in good shape. My friend in the hospital, what I wouldn’t give for him to have been that fortunate, too.
My Aunt Josephine, on the right in the picture, next to her brother Felice and his East Texas bride, Reba. And my dad and mom. A night out on the town. Was it in Dallas? Or Hollywood? They look out at me from this picture as if to say, “Bring us your best bottle of Italian wine, and come sit down with us and enjoy your family.” If only I could, Uncle Phil. My mom and my Aunt Jo are both in their 90’s now, both in pretty good health. Still driving. But not in the rain.

My dad’s sister, Aunt Mary, called me today. She was checking in with me. Her husband passed away a few years ago. Her son-in-law died a little over a year ago. Last summer one of her grandsons had an accident in the ocean, and he too is gone. So she called to see if I was still here, still around.

Yes, Aunt Mary. Many of them are gone but we are still here, those of us on the edges of the photographs. Still ticking and kicking. Still dreaming and still looking for a way to make all this work out. I miss our Family Sundays. And so I sit here and put down these thoughts for the internets to hold, for another place and time and people. It was a great time, and the memories feed the heart and the soul, on Sundays, when the family is spread out far.

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

The Grand Slam Club

My brother-in-law Nick was born a hunter. Growing up in Greece during WWII, where famine was the norm at the time, he learned how to survive at a very early age. When his family immigrated to the New World, settling in Southern California, I could only imagine what he must have felt like, as a child. He took to California and the American Dream like a duck to water.

All this as an introduction in the way of a comparison. Nick, being a hunter, is one of a handful of hunters who have made it into the Grand Slam Club. You can read about it here. The guy loves to hunt, fish, golf, win. I mean, we were sitting outside having lunch and I caught him stalking prairie dogs, it’s just in his blood.

Oh, and he likes wine. Italian wine, California wine, French wine. Good wine.

On a visit earlier this month at his and my sisters rambling Tuscan ranch house, on the 16th green of a PGQ gold course in Indian Wells, we got to opening a few bottles of wine. And talking about what makes a wine great. It got me to thinking about the way we collect our wines. Are they trophies to put on a rack and lay claim to bragging rights? Or is there a deeper meaning to the wines we have opened, enjoyed and appreciated over the years?

Is there an Italian Grand Slam for wines? And if so, what would they be?

In my mind I’d be putting Barolo and Barbaresco up on the wall. Brunello? Most likely, but these days, Brunello is bothering me. If you put it into the context of 50 or so years, then OK. But right now, I’d say Brunello is on probation with a lot of us.

The fourth wine? Amarone? A Maremma red, maybe from Bolgheri? Something from the Valtellina? A Taurasi? What do you think?

About ten years ago my brother-in-law and sister and I were having breakfast at a hotel. A few tables away Angelo Gaja and his field rep were seated. I mentioned to my brother-in-law that the gentleman about his age was a famous Italian winemaker. I went over to the table and said hello. After all I had first sold Gaja’s wines in 1981.

When I came back to the table, Nick seemed surprised that I knew and had done business with such a famous wine personality. I explained to him that once you enter into the field, most doors will open one day or another, no big deal.

But Gaja has not only entered the Grand Slam Club. In his winemaking ventures he also has produced the grand Slam wines if you see those four wines as Barolo, Barbaresco, Brunello and Bolgheri. So to him, hats off. I only wish I could taste through some of these wines once in a while. They seem to have moved to an arena where other wines that I used to enjoy, wines like Pomerols and Pauillacs, have also migrated to. The investor classes.

No doubt Barolo, Barbaresco and Brunello are in my club. But the fourth wine? I’d like to think Amarone might rate high and Taurasi as well. Not yet with Sicily, nor Sardegna, sorry islanders. Not yet.

I do have fond memories of Chambave Rouge. But that is a wine for the ages now and the storytellers. I guess Neal Rosenthal and I are some of the few lucky chaps to still have a bottle or two around of the legendary 1961 from Ezio Voyat.

I’m sure my brother-in-law, if he was playing this game, would put Sassicaia on that wall of fame. And prior to the 1990’s I would agree. But that just gives the wine two decades to have proven itself. Is that enough? Is the wine still capable of evoking legendary emotions?

After last years trip to the Valtellina, I was hopeful. And while I won't rule it out, there’s still not enough time for those wines, in modern times, to have redeemed their once lofty status.

My mind seeks to focus my gaze through the crosshairs; focus. Is it even another red wine we seek?

What do you think?

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

If the Shoe Fits

Haven’t we all had a shoe or two thrown at us this year? That was my thought this afternoon. I had spent two days preparing a proposal for an Italian-styled restaurant. They needed to replace a whole slew of wines that a distributor had lost. And we got the call. I’m not sure they really needed me. I think they might have been looking for less expertise and a deeper pocket. With a blank check.

So along with two of my colleagues, we headed for a late afternoon appointment. And waited. And waited.

The person with which we had the appointment never showed. Two days I worked on this presentation. For a no show. It happens. You show up and someone throws a shoe at you. Or worse, they just blow you off. After 25+ years, who likes it? But what can you really do about it?

Last week, I did a wine dinner for 30 people. I realized very early in the evening that these folks really didn’t come to hear me talk about Italian wines. They were there for a good meal on a cold night. So I spoke for about 7 minutes and then sat down and talked for the rest of the evening to a couple of people who I really liked talking to. I wasn’t supposed to sit next to them. In fact every time I chose a seat, someone came and took my seat. At first I felt offended. Wasn’t I the person who was here to explain the evening to them? But in reality, that wasn’t the case. The shoe didn’t fit. I was just there along with them. Hey, the owner of the restaurant, who lived on the grounds and whom I have known for 25 years, didn’t even come down to say hello. To his customers! The folks who pay his bills. Forget about being a friend of his for a quarter of a century. Boy, things have gotten really off kilter these days.

Is it really that important? No. It. Isn’t. So why the expectations? I really have no idea. Maybe it is something about the Italian idea of respect for one's trade and the hope that if you ply it long enough and diligently enough someone will respond with the deserved respect. Well that could be a cold day in Dante’s Hell, if you really think folks peer that far out of their own personal box of consequences.

Life or death; now we’re talking consequences and importance. Not whether we can talk a restaurant manager into lowering his wine by-the-glass prices. The free-market forces will take care of that. The consumers are the real experts in that they will reward (or punish) good (or bad) business decisions. Not those journeymen who breathe it, live it, dream it, day and night, year after year. A sobering thought in the abstract. But weighed against life and death decisions, well, let’s just say if the shoe fits…

There are plenty of folks who wish they could get back into their own shoes. But their life took them to a place where they had to answer for the decisions of others. In the last 5+ years, many of these men and women have been lost to the future. Someone dodges a shoe, others can’t dodge a bullet. Random? Some divine plan here? And what does it have to do with the Italian wine trail? Or rather, what does the Italian wine trail have to do with it?

Not much. If anything. Like our little galaxy, just off to the corner from the really important goings on. Except for those of us who are going through it at the time. As it is with each and every one of us. Except perhaps for the most highly enlightened. Like the yogi master on an island somewhere.

Seventh inning stretch.

OK, back to the ballgame.

Where were we?

Oh yes. Yes, the meaning of our place in this daily activity. The wine business. The holiday season. The economic slowdown.

Like I told a colleague today, if you can feed yourself and wipe your own behind, consider yourself one of the lucky ones.

Or would you rather walk a mile in a pair of shoes that the owner got blown out of?

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

You Know It's Italian...

I had this idea when I was driving along a vineyard in California recently. The vineyard had rows of grapes each marked with a different grape: Pinot Grigio, Dolcetto, Sangiovese, and Pinot Noir. Really. Never would you see that in Italy. So it got me to thinking about some things that are uniquely Italian. And in the spirit of the blogosphere, I wrote to several folks asking them what their ideas were.

The sentence I asked folks to finish was:

You know it’s Italian when…

That simple.

It could be something like:

“You know it’s Italian when you drive past a vineyard and they don’t have Pinot Grigio planted right next to Dolcetto and Pinot Noir.”

Or

“You know it’s Italian when the sip of sweet wine is being served to you by a priest, not a sommelier.”

That kind of thing.

And here’s what I heard back. In case there are folks who sent something in and I didn’t post it, let me know, I’ll append. Or if folks just got too durned busy, if’n you want in, send it. Va bene?

Hank Rossi: You know you're Italian if you were 14 before you knew your name wasn't "Testa Dura"

You know it's Italian when the winery has a gas pump like device so it can sell wine to its neighbors in bulk at a good price.

You know it's Italy when every restaurant recommendation is followed by "and they have good prices".

Marco Romano: You know it's Italian when there are strong hints of volcanic acidity in your glass.

You know it's Italian when the pasta with vongole tastes more of the sea after each sip of wine.

Guy Stout: You know it’s Italian when you are craving Pasta in a Bolognese sauce with wide egg noodles and a few bottles Chianti Riserva.

You know it's Italian when it doesn't fit because it’s too tight.

You know it's Italian when you're at a bar in Sant'Angelo Scalo at 7:30 in the morning and you overhear someone saying, "C'ho tanto di quel merlot da raccogliere" (I got a mess of Merlot to pick).

Jeff Siegel: You know it’s Italian when the wine is made with a grape no one has ever heard of, and the wine tastes a lot better than the stuff made with grapes people have heard of.

Tracie Branch: You know it's Italian when an old wine barrel is blocking your driveway.

Thomas Pellechia: You know it's Italian when the drainage tiles in the vineyard are clean enough to serve as dinner plates.

Jon Gerber: You know it's Italian when you can't understand what the winemaker is saying but you understand him perfectly by watching what he says with his hands.

Andrew Barrow : You know it's Italian when it drinks even more beautifully with food

Amy Atwood: You know it's Italian when you can't quite understand what they are saying but that doesn't matter because you know you want more!

Linda Hinton (who works for Louis Latour): You know it's Italian when there are no Tums or Rolaids on the premises, only Amaro and Limoncello.

You know it's Italian when the vineyards have been in the family for a few centuries, not generations.

Anon: You know it’s Italian when your taxes are unpaid and your women are

Antonio Gianola: You know it's Italian when the espresso is always perfect, people who drink wine with lunch are not alcoholics and the men are more concerned about fashion than the women.

Craig Collins: You know it's Italian when you have been sitting at the table for an hour and a half already, you have eaten so much you can not move, you have drank so much you are slurring, the main course finally arrives and it is only lunch.

Nancy and Gary Krabill: You know it's Italian when Vin Santo arrives unbidden to your table and the restaurant owner is too polite to point out that you weren't supposed to drink the whole bottle!

You know it's Italian when you are the last party in a restaurant and notice the waiters have gone to sleep on the tables rather than approach you to offer your check.

Dana Schrick: You know it's Italian when you sip a Brunello and your mind conjures up a picture of John Wayne swaggering over to his horse, mounting up and galloping off into the sunset.

Gianpaolo Paglia: you know it’s Italian when there is no penguin, lizard, or other cute animals on the label.

Carmen Castorina: You know it’s Italian when drinking the wine makes them smile!

Joyce Hobbs: You know it’s Italian when you see a person on a Vespa and their dog is riding with them in the middle.

Filippo de Belardino: You know it’s Italian when the kids at the table are drinking ginger ale with a small amount of wine in their glass.

You know it’s Italian when someone the priest at the mass demands a DOCG sacramental wine.

Susannah Gold: You know it's Italian when there is a strange combination of aromas and flavors that sort of remind you of France, maybe Alsace but then something hits you that seems vaguely Austrian or Hungarian...unsure you race through wine regions and realize it could only be from Friuli.

You know it’s Italian when you sip the wine, get lots of acidity and then it slips into an amazingly integrated mouthful.

You know it's Italian when the grape variety is hard to pronounce but it makes you dream of far away and exciting places.



Thanks everybody!

Additional...


Robert Pellegrini: You know it's Italian when you pass a home with a perfectly manicured garden and a statue of St. Francis, or La Madonna in front.

Steve Armes: You know it's Italian when the descriptions on the menu don't include words like infused, deconstructed, or anything to do with molecular cooking.

Ceri Smith: You know it's Italian when you care about the wine and not the "points."

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

Too Much Information

I tried writing this post with a catchy title, woven with news and personal observations. But it just wasn’t quite right. Too many ingredients on my plate. So let’s try again.

The Italian wine trail has taken me to the Hill Country of Texas this week, from Temple to San Antonio, to New Braunfels to Driftwood to Austin. I’m ready to be back home in my own kitchen, in my own town.

After some days in California, where the best food I had was sushi, I found myself in Italian restaurants this week. One was for a dinner meeting with Andrew and Maureen Weissmann, who are opening an Italian place next year in San Antonio. They get it.

Unfortunately the restaurant we were at, the folks in the kitchen were trying to impress him. So they sent out plates that were jammed with too much information. Gnocchi with tomato sauce and fava beans and cheese and, and, and. Like the chef at the table said, “Just keep it fresh, simple and sourced from a quality place.”

And it is that simple. If only folks in the kitchen would get out once in a while and see what the rest of the world is doing.

Italy is constantly being caricaturized, whether it be our food, our wine, our song, our legends. And the Italians who came to America starting 100 years ago, wanting to please their new parent country, bowed and bent and danced their little jig until now what they are presenting as Italian is barely noticeable. We had quite the conversation over a bowl of ragu this week, in the home of a recent-return from living in Italy, one of the best meals I’ve had this month. But our discourse took us over the laundry list of excuses restaurateurs use to explain why they can’t cook like mama did at home.

“Our customers want more food on the plate.”
“They ask for more garlic, we don’t want to use that much.”
“We have to give them a side of spaghetti; they’ve come to expect it over the years.”

And on and on.

Odd, when I talked to chef Weissman ( at the place with the swollen plates), he simply said “ I will do it as I feel it needs to be done. I know I can’t go wrong if I stick to the truth.”

This week we had lunch at a pizzeria napolitana, the owner sat down with us. But before he did we ate. I ordered a pizza with prosciutto and arugula, one of my favorites. As the pie was being set before me I picked up a scent of truffle. From an early experience with white truffles in the 1980’s ( I basically OD’d on the smell of truffles from driving them around in my car for two days, selling them) I have an aversion to them. Or rather, I have a loathing for truffle oil that doesn’t use good quality truffles or oil. And then some kitchen cheerleader bathes a dish in the stuff, making it stink like a Virginia City whore.

My dining partner saw this look on my face. I know he was just a little bit worried. Here we are in an important account, and I'm showing phenolic pain on my face. But then a waft, the angels tail, floats up and whispers in my ear, “give it a try, make sure.” Two wonderful things happened. It was real oil, real truffles, and it was applied with a deft touch. Perfetto.

After, we’re sitting around the table tasting and talking with the owner, Doug Horn. His place, Dough, came out as need for him to deliver a product that in Italy is basic, wonderful and a necessity. And yes, I’m sure from time to time he gets folks coming in looking for a double cheese pizza with extra pepperoni. But then he gets the wandering pilgrims who just want to dip their hand in the holy water, genuflect and get a moment away from the endless missionary work.

His list is 100% Italian wines. He gets it too.

So San Antonio has hope. Austin, in this moment, under the uber-microscope of authentic Italian-ness, let’s say we need a dose of Speranza's to rouse them from their deep freeze. But that was then and times have changed.

Exactly! Times have changed. So why the big plates and the 5 times mark-up on wine and too much garlic and overcooked pasta with too much going on in the bowl? Why are we still settling for salmon and short ribs as something quintessentially Italian?

Let me say this, to anyone who have scanned down this far on the post: If you are in the wine and food business, tear out a page from Andrew Weissman’s play book, “just keep it fresh, simple and sourced from a quality place.” You can’t go wrong if you stick to the truth.


"Ohh, there must be some easier way for me to get my wings."

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

Dark Star

Dark star crashes, pouring its light into ashes.

Two men looked out from prison bars: One saw mud, one saw stars.

This has been a long week. What started out as a short trip to visit family and then a run up to Napa for a three day seminar at the CIA, on the Terroir of California, well, that all changed. I would have to find my own terroir. I did, along with any number of moments that harkened back to childhood. I was going back to a place where you can never return. I just didn't know that’s why "they" were sending for me.

That place would be the California of my youth. That California no longer exists. Sitting at a wine bar in Hollywood talking among folks, who a few moments before were strangers, they asked me why wouldn’t I come back? I’d had these conversations many times before in Hollywood, in the days when I worked there. Nights in October when the jasmine filled the air with their blossoms and Southern California truly was a magical, intoxicating place. That place now is now valet-parked in the corner of my mind and it probably will never be retrieved. And even if it is discovered, who am I to lay any claim on it now? It didn’t work for Balboa; it surely won’t work for me.

Look, the California of my parent's youth seems as if it was even more treasured. If I were to reinvent California it would be in those days; quieter, less polluted, less crowded and you could get away with a lot more than now.

But that night in Hollywood, we sipped on dry-farmed, native-yeast, full-of-life wines from France, Italy and Austria. So, in effect, I had found my place once again. It wasn’t the murky, muddy backwaters of Southwestern Louisiana, no, that will come later this month, if all goes well. It wasn’t the star spewed and endless horizon place like Marfa. But for one brief moment, on a bar stool in Hollywood, I had found my sisters and brother and we were enjoying some really great wine.

Odd, here I was in what are my tribal-home grounds, LA. And I was the only native Angelino in the bunch. They came from Connecticut, Ohio, New York, and Illinois. And they were asking me why I wasn’t still living here. “I got in on the ground floor. I’m done with it now, except for these brief reunions. It’s all yours, folks.”

Sure the blue fin Toro was like nothing else I've ever had. And the back streets of the hills behind UCLA are a magical place. But I’ve been steering this craft back home all my life. I don’t reckon I’ll make it all the way to Italy. Hell, the Italy I once knew is gone too. Not a problem, the river pathway will be just fine. Somewhere down the Guadalupe’.

I do love the desert, though. Maybe it was all those years sitting on that little rock out in the vacant lot out in front of my house flying kites and staring at the mountain. I see my spirit friends, the hawks, the prairie dogs, the snakes, the lizards; they flash to me from the mountains and hills and tell me they are OK. They’re watching over things. Muchas Gracias hermanos.

Dammit, open the Pod Bay doors, Al!

Funny thing about the way it is vs. the way we want it to be. On the plane coming home yesterday I was trudging a couple of carry-ons and my hands were full. Nothing I couldn’t handle, but on the way to the seat, an older couple was struggling with getting their last carry-on up in the bin. They asked me if I could help them. Normally I am very accommodating to people and I was in this case as well. But not before I told the couple that they shouldn’t try to carry things on that they weren’t prepared to handle, that’s what checking luggage is for. The lady, perturbed that I had the audacity to challenge her good judgment in her old age, quipped back, “Just you wait till, you don’t know what it’s like. Someday you’ll be old.”

“Yes, ma’am, and when that day comes, hopefully more mature than the behavior you are exhibiting.”

As I propped their misshapen luggage into the bin, without as much as a thank you, she simply called out, “You’re an idiot!”

To which the only reply I could muster up was an effortless, “You’re welcome.”

It’s good to be home.

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

The Big Tree

This is a defining moment all across Italy. Men with names like Alfredo, Dino, Antonio and Piero are handing over their life’s work to their sons and daughters. A lifetime, several generations worth of time and work and sweat and tears, and it all leads up to this moment. Handing over the keys of the kingdom to the next generation.

But it isn’t as simple as that. It never is. For these men are Big Trees, and the shadow that they make is daunting for the ones who follow them in succession.

Who has the hardest time of it, the man who has spent 40 or 50 years building an empire, or the daughter or son who has to find a way to grow outside of the shadow of his great effort?

Sometimes it isn’t even the simple transition from a rustic winemaking scenario to one which relies more on science and technology. Sometimes it is more about the character of the person and their presence that is almost indomitable. When that becomes more important than the wine or the land, then the tree can sap the energy of the spirit of wine.

Sometimes it is a vision thing. Whether it is in an established region like Tuscany or an up and coming one like Sicily or Puglia or Abruzzo, the personality that defines the impetus for the wine and the estate can sometimes be the overriding influence.

Then the idea of the wine gets bigger and if it gets bigger than the person that brought it into prominence, there has to be some kind of succession plan in place.

But that is often hard; the Italian child is often trained to be deferential to his parent. Then, a child in their 40’s is still responding as if they were still 8. And the wine, and the family, suffers.

The energy, while it is given its start from one person, draws from a larger wellspring of energy. And it is the difficult responsibility of the generation that follows to take the lead, to be wiser beyond their years, to take on faith where they must steer the estate and the wine into the future.

A couple of things the Big Tree must realize. Because it is large and rooted deep, the big tree cannot move with adroitness. Part of the energy of its greatness comes from making a stand, putting down roots and staking their claim.

The Big Tree casts giant shadows. Makes it hard for the little trees around to find enough sunlight to grow. Not bad in terms of survival and making sure that those who do make it out of the shadows are strong and will endure in the greater world.

Doesn’t quite sound like a walk in the park, does it?

This is nothing new. But in Italy, now, this is tipping point for many estates from Piedmont to Calabria, from Liguria to Molise, in the recalibration of the Italian wine standard. Many of the young from winemaking families have traveled the world, selling wine, making wine and learning about wine. When they come back home and see what a beautifully unique opportunity there is for them to make these one of a kind wines. Do they see it with those eyes? I sure hope so.

We don’t need anymore ill-fitting shoes, with Italian sounding names, from China. And we don’t need anymore Napa Valley Cabernets from Bolgheri.

We still need the Big Tree (and the old vines) to remind us to never disregard our essence. And we need a new generation of Big Trees, young men and women, to rise up out of the vinelands of Italy.

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