DOCG Misfits

The recent awarding of a DOCG (or was it 2 DOCG’s?) for Prosecco started it all off. I got thinking that there are several wines that have received the DOCG status, that, to me, seem ill fitting. Seeing as I started with Prosecco, let’s start there, shall we?

Conegliano Valdobbiadene and Colli Asolani. Is it one DOCG or is it two? Here we have a classic case of al’Italiana, confusion right from the onset. Most likely it was a political decision, and seeing as we are in Luca Zaia’s backyard, all the more reason for a politician to decide what’s best for the farmers. Good old Dr. Zaia.

I could understand Conegliano Valdobbiadene a little better than Colli Asolani, but really, is there any Prosecco worthy of a DOCG? If there was, perhaps we might want to consider reserving it for wines that come from the Cartizze, a small and revered spot which is the heart and soul of Prosecco. Maybe a Cartizze would be a laudable rival to one of the great Italian sparkling wines, Franciacorta. But, no, that wasn’t the solution. Why recognize a lion when there are so many asses braying for attention. Let’s give it to them all. But just one problem, say some of the producers. The new law will restrict production, forcing higher prices. Perfect timing for a world where the popularity of Champagne plummets daily.

The reality is, there will be less Prosecco DOCG (or Conegliano Valdobbiadene and Colli Asolani as the politicians have deigned to call it, making it even more confusing) and there will also be a Prosecco DOC. Great. That’s probably what they should have done to Chianti and Chianti Classico, but that’s another paragraph. I wouldn’t want to be a Prosecco producer right now. The folks in Trentino must be having a gay old time with this one.

A couple of whites (not the only ones, by the way) that I find hard to imagine being DOCG-worthy: Albana di Romagna. What in heaven’s name allowed that to happen? It’s a fine wine to have when one is in the area, but really, is it on the same par as a Fiano or a Gavi? I think not. I tried to grok the wine, and as early as the mid 1980’s I was on to it, looking for every example I could find to determine the mystique of this wine. But, like Galestro, it fell short of fabulous and I couldn’t figure out why the Italian authorities thought this wine worthy of a DOCG. So I chalked it up to a brilliant political maneuver by the communists of the region. I am surprised they haven’t gotten a DOCG for Lambrusco yet.

The other white, I am sorry to say, is Vernaccia di San Gimignano. I know, I know, Michelangelo, is said to have described the wine he loved and wrote poetry as one that "kisses, licks, bites, pinches and stings". In all the many times I have drunk Vernaccia from San Gimignano I can attest to four out of the five qualities. But kissing? Rarely. Sting, yes. Bites, yes. Pinches, yes. Even licks. But no smooch fest is Vernaccia. So it was given the DOCG for the respect that one gives to an early white DOC? That’s like saying let’s give the part in a new movie to the old star even though the role calls for a younger person. Vernaccia is a minor player in an operetta. Not Puccini and La Boheme or Madam Butterfly or Tosca. No. Not. Ever. Quel dommage.

While we are rampaging through the Tuscan countryside, let’s tackle Chianti. First, let me be clear. Chianti Classico has a right to the claim of DOCG. Absolutely. But plain vanilla, made in an industrial manner straight Chianti? In Fiasco? What’s up with that? Other than appearing to be totally wrong and sending a very off beam message, it isn’t likely that the powers that be in Italy will ever rescind the DOCG for plain vanilla Chianti. But the whole legitimacy of the Chianti Classico, and even the sub regions, Rufina et al, is compromised precariously. Guilt by association. Hard to keep staying alive. I reckon the lesson that the folks in Bordeaux are learning once again ( the hard way) are not comprehended by their Italian cousins in Tuscany. Might as well be another planet. It too is a shame, because as the world fine wine market is melting down, and we have just seen the tip of the iceberg, the Italians are more interested in their August vacations than the 4th quarter of 2009. Bordeaux is failing and with more revelations to come. Tuscany, well they are waiting in line to get a towel and an umbrella and a beach chair. Bless their hearts.

Last one- Bardolino Superiore. Now I like Bardolino and I love the Chiaretto. But the wine is a romp, a fun time, a fast ride with the windows down. Bardolino is a hot date with a cute blond in a mini. But there is no gravitas attached to it. Bardolino is a summer affair, while the faithful spouse, let’s call her Amarone, sits at home and waits. And feeds the kids. And is full of character. Yes, Bardolino is fine as a DOC, but no “G’, no “G”. Ah gee.

It is July and I’m entering that period where the sun beats down on my head and funny ideas emerge. But the Italians have me beat with their misfit decisions about which wines should and shouldn’t be the standard bearers for the country. Greed, politics, back room haggling, deals made in smoky chambers, in a word, politics.

Like I said, quel dommage.

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

The Country Run and the Best Fried Pie in America

A million years ago when I was a young buck, I had a large territory in North Texas to cover for the wine company I worked for. We were a fine wine company, with classified growths, exceptional Italian wines, great Mosel wines, ports and Champagnes. And cult California wines. About once a month I’d go on my country run which would take me to the Oklahoma border to a little town in North Texas.

I was also into winemaking and this was the area where T.V. Munson set up his vines and lab to help save the European vineyards. See my book review on Munson and his life over at Alder Yarrow’s Vinography blog (where he has me do the occasional book review for the site).

Anyway, today I was in the mood for catfish and fried pie and there was a little shack out there that Saveur magazine had just written up, so I figured a country run was once more in order.

I can almost drive the road in my sleep; so many times I remember doing it. Once when I was up there, on Dec 31, 1981, when I got home my apartment had been broken in and my precious Canon VIT rangefinder was stolen. A month later I bought a house, @ 16.5% interest. It was the heady Reagan era, and times were tough for middle class folks just starting up in the wine biz. But hey, I made it through that and worse.

Today, though, I headed first to lunch. I had spent the better part of the morning power washing the apartment building that I have a condo in and today was “duty day” for me. Soaking wet and hungry, I quickly showered and headed up the road, 66 miles away.

The sign was pretty funny, and there was a waiting line for lunch. But it was cool inside and the smell of fried hushpuppies and catfish was too much. Within minutes, after stepping into an east Texas dialect we ordered up, catfish, shrimp and sides.

But the icing on the cake was the fried pie. I had an aunt, her name was Amelia, but we all called her Aunt Mil, who was one of the greatest cooks in my life. And Aunt Mil could cook just about anything. She knew how to fry a pie and this one did her memory well. As the apricot oozed out of the flaky shell I could almost hear my aunt calling me to the table. It’s been ten years since she passed on. Boy, do I miss her cooking almost more than anything.

After lunch we headed on over to the T.V. Munson homestead and looked over his Italianate home and vineyards. The neighborhood has grown up around the old regal home, some of the neighbors probably don’t know (or care) what this man’s work represents to the people of France and Europe. He was a giant.

After our pilgrimage we headed back home but not before stopping by one of my old accounts, Driggs #3. The owner, Robert Driggs, was there and we barely noticed each other. But after a few minutes of reminiscing, we hit our stride and got back up to speed. Robert is a really great guy, so friendly and really one of the people who put fine wine on the map in North Texas. He lives in a pretty quiet way and place, but some of the wines I have sold (and bought) with Robert have been pretty amazing. I saw a 1975 Il Poggione Brunello in the display case along with a 1988 Ridge Montebello. And the prices are so reasonable. I picked up a 1979 Château Ducru Beaucaillou and a 1980 Foppiano Petite Sirah for a song. I know in his cellar there are stashed some great Mosel wines from the mid 1970’s along with almost every Opus One every made. And that’s just for starters. The man has an incredible sense of what great wine is and I have never been disappointed in the wines I took home from his shop. The 1968 San Martin Petite Sirah (bought the day of the Dec.31 break-in) was one of the greatest wines I have ever had. I hate to tell you how little I paid for it.

Not bad for what I thought would be a day off; great fried pie, a pilgrimage to the Munson home and a couple of great bottles to take home for the July 4th celebration.

Our 4th of July wines, served to friends who just moved here from L.A. Now those were some mighty fine bottles, including one I sold(and just retrieved) 25 years ago!

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

Lament for an Old Giant

It seems like everyday we get another headline announcing the passing of someone who was part of the larger American family. I have been thinking about this iconic Tuscan wine, one that grew up with America. And as America developed, so this wine also expanded in the marketplace and on tables across America. For many people this wine came to symbolize Italian wine. In restaurants, surely, in its day, the top tier had more swagger than Brunello.

My earliest memory is in the cellar of an old Italian restaurant, helping the leggy female sommelier open all the wood boxes. It would take 20 or more minutes, from the 750ml to the 1.5 Liter, the regular "Tan" and "Gold Standard" Riservas. We could have sold those boxes now, but in 1979 they were broken down and thrown out. A shame, because they used a kind of pine that dried to an almost hardwood density.

There was this little red wine, referred to as if it had become an amorphous reanimation of a magnificent Italian from the Renaissance. Today it would a simple Toscana IGT, but in those days, it was a find. Sangiovese, probably with a little Montepulciano or Primitivo ( legal for that time) that would come to the table for under $20 in a white tablecloth high-class place. The goal was to replace ice tea and Liebfraumilch on those white tablecloths with something Italian. Something that went with the food.

The Spirit of Wine

From the There I go, there I go, there I go, there I go department:

Has this ever happened to you? You are visiting a winery and the guide takes you through the stainless steel tank room, and then a barrel room or two and maybe the bottling room or even the board room. Have you ever been in that situation and someone said,” You’ve seen one stainless steel tank room, you’ve seem them all?” And then as you go into the tasting room as the first wine is poured all those tanks and barrels and executive tables and chairs didn’t seem as important as that tiny little precious liquid that you were getting ready to taste?

Somewhere between the spirit of wine and the soul of humankind there is a connection. It is different for some people and maybe others just don’t get that sense. But with a little imagination those little tastes can take one on amazing trips in time. Think back to the oldest wine you ever had. If it was 30 or more years old, most likely someone involved with the wine has passed on. For one brief moment we can connect with the work and life of a soul who is on the other side. Isn’t that a wonderful benefit of immortality? At least for those of us who remain. I think this often, whenever I open an older bottle of wine.

Sometimes one needn’t wait that long, unfortunately. The wines of Gravner have the touch of the young son who perished this year.

I think of the time I was in Pio Cesare’s cellar. Way down below the ancient Roman wall we came to the end. There, staring at me was a wine as old as I was. This winemaker, someone my father’s age, was long gone. But we met, for that brief moment, in front of the wine he had given birth to. How can one not love this business?

In truth, we descend the staircase daily, looking to bring up wines from the past. Wine is really all about a moment in time, frozen and preserved for people in the future to enjoy. It is a confluence of the ancient with the modern, the dead with the living. It is a mystical connection to souls beyond life.

I have a friend who passed away four years ago. In a linen closet I found a bottle he must have left when he was staying here. It was a simple Sangiovese from the Marche and it was marked in his handwriting as a sample to try. That is probably one of the most precious wines I have in the house. It is a connection to the life and work of a soul who gave everything to wine and the business of wine. Just like those ancient Chaldean winemakers 4500 years ago. These are markers in the life of the spirit of wine that renew my joy for this calling.

Aside from the deep belief that we must bring forth the vital energy of the fields to the new lands, it goes into an even deeper section of the cellar. It is because when you do have those beyond time and grave experiences with wine you really do get signed up to an ancient army of the wine god. And then there is no turning back. From the ancient winemakers in 2500BC all the way to the importer in the 21st century, we have burned the boats. There is no alternative to anything short of carrying out the wishes of the spirit of wine and the souls who have gone before. There is no direction home. You have arrived to the Promised Land.

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

Calabria: The Epiphany

There has been discussion in Italy about the future of wine in Calabria. In brief, there are two camps: one to maintain a more traditional use of the native grapes for the wines of Ciro and one which seeks to elaborate the appellation with the use of more international grapes.

Calabria is where my mom’s mom came from. She left a poor region, which had just been devastated by a terrible earthquake, early in the 20th century. Calabria has been abused by organized crime and tribal urges. It is a beautiful place. The wines are hard to sell, but when someone tastes a Gaglioppo or a Montonico they become enthralled with the fruit and the texture and the echo of the earth from where they spring.

Can Cabernet help bring wealth and fame to Calabria? Who knows? When a wine like a Ciro or any number of wines from Calabria tries to make it in America, it is a combination of energies. When the Statti’s or the Librandi’s come to America, the wines are well received and people love them. And surely these two wines often represent different styles and philosophies of winegrowing in the region. The connection isn’t always because of a review or a score. Sometimes it is the personal touch that these people bring to the selling game. So it’s not as easy as Cabernet or no Cabernet, native yeasts or designer yeasts, French barrique or chestnut botti. It’s just all simple and black and white.

When I first went to Calabria in 1977 and visited my family in Bucita, it was harvest time. I’ve written elsewhere about that experience on the blog. I didn’t elaborate on the experience but now I would like to do so.

Many have had a wine that was an epiphany. If you haven’t yet had it, be patient, you will. In the past, when someone would ask me what my epiphany wine was, I’d search back and come up with all kinds of examples. The 1964 Monfortino. The 1935 Taylors Port. The 1974 Heitz Martha’s. The 1961 Lafite. The 1953 Petrus. The 1928 and 1929 Haut Brion. The 1928 D’Yquem. The 1968 Sassicaia. And so on.

But the wine that really was the one that turned the light on for me had been put up in a used beer bottle with a crown cap. It was in the wine cellar of my family, the one at the top of this post. My cousins brought me down in the evening after the meal, when the children had been put to bed and the women upstairs were busy (always) making something. We’d go into the cellar and empty bottles so they’d have them for the new vintage. They were not wealthy, but there was a lack of raw materials, so nothing was ever wasted. They weren’t poor. They had a washer and a dryer. Back home in those days, we didn’t. And they had a better car than I had. And a TV. We didn’t have TV because we didn’t want one. But the cars were old 1962’s, a Corvair and Falcon wagon. So to me my cousins were doing well. They just didn’t have enough bottles.

We sat down and after drinking a couple of demijohns of stout red wine, about 5 of us, one of the cousins went to a cabinet and brought out this little bottle of golden, murky wine. It was a Greco or a Moscato, I don’t remember the grape. But it was a late harvest dessert wine. My family loves sweet things. Those wonderful figs that are baked in their leaves, the cookies, chocolate and fruits, dripping with honey-sweetness. And by the way they unlatched the little cabinet and brought out the wine, I could sense this was important.

I loved how they accepted me. All too often everyone is too darn busy or angry to give a damn about anyone except for themselves. But in 1977 things were different. Things were slower. Not as many people lived in their own little reality bubble. No phones, no email, no blog rage, no tweet-spies. Just the sun in the morning, a day of work, two meals, a nap in the afternoon and in the evening after the last meal and the occasional passeggiata, a venture into the wine cellar. And here we were.

The wine: I still remember the smell. It was like the flower of a jasmine. Sweet, honey, a little edge of bitter, and the floral blousy exposure. The last thing I smelled something that wonderful was the perfume on the neck on my girlfriend when we were fourteen.

The taste: was a wisp of fruit, not enough acid to matter, but nothing awkward or out of balance. This was a wine pure and natural as it had been made for hundreds, if not thousands of years. It connected me to all of the people that had come before and made me feel like finally I had been born to something that I was meant to do, something I loved. It was my entrance interview that the god of wine had arranged with my cousins. It was test and celebration, certification and baptism all rolled up in one. It was the choice that was being given to me for a vocation of a lifetime.

And now, entering into the fourth decade of this work. All around us there is tension and stress and warehouses and wineries filling up with wine. Where will it go? Who will drink it? How will we ever get it all out of the cabinet in the cellar and turn on the light for all those many souls for whom the epiphany awaits?

As it has been since the days of the Chaldeans making wine for the Egyptians, so it is 4,500 years later. One precious bottle at a time.

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

The Wine Guise

About once a month I get together with “the guys.” These fellows are successful, well connected members of the business and political community in my city. I don’t know how I got invited to join their group; I think it was my friend Hank who was trying to load up with another Italian American. And I occasionally have “access” to good wine. But these guys didn’t need me.

At first, I wondered about the get-togethers. It usually centered around a wine theme. Bordeaux, Chilean reds, Burgundy, Barolo, Napa Cabs, and so on. And while in any given day I might taste up to 100 wines and the last thing I might want to do is sit around and drink more wine, for some reason I just gave in to this monthly ritual. I’m glad I did.

Hank - Entrepreneur and world adventurer

Hank is the instigator of this gathering. Not quite a salon, and not just a bunch of horny old men talking about good looking younger women, although that isn’t off limits. No, I have been trying to figure out why we really get together. Oh we eat well and drink good wine. We, or rather they, talk about local politics and business. It has been an education for me to listen and learn about the city I have lived in for 30 years. A city which I barely know. And a city which doesn’t have the slightest idea about me. So very odd to write these words and very hard to acknowledge the truth in them. But it is so.

Phil – Restaurateur and land mogul

These guys are a gut check for a certain rhythm that this city puts out.

Neal – Enigmatic urban revitalizer

When I was younger, I saw this city as a haven for opportunity and freedom. It has been that. For the guys in my group they have probably been a bit more astute in realizing and pouncing on these opportunities. Fortunes have been made and lost and made again.

Dave – Hospitality, marketing and media "diviner"

I think that is what attracted me to Dallas, an “anything is possible” attitude. Yes, I know folks in bigger cities or in more ecologically sensitive or more beautiful places might look at a city like Dallas and shake their heads and think this here place is bright and shiny and shallow. Yes, it does look like that from the outside. But things aren’t always as they appear, especially when gift wrapped so handsomely.

Hank left today to go on a three month adventure to that starts in Riga, Latvia, and ends in New Delhi, India, on September 14. He'll be blogging here about it. He and his brave wife will go to Uzbekistan, Kyzgystan, Western China, the Taklamakan (translates to “go in and you won’t come out”) Desert, following The Silk Road to Tibet. They will cross the Himalayan Mountains to Nepal, and finally travel to India and home to Dallas.

I asked Hank why he chose Dallas. He can live anywhere, and for most of the year he does. Hank is a straight talker, no b.s. kind of guy. Simply, he said Dallas was small enough to have friends and large enough to find whatever he needed when he wasn’t exploring the world. A great place to come home to.

Me, I'm tackling the wine trail in Italy and Hank is taking on the Taklamakan Desert, the Silk Road and the Himalayas. I’ve got nothing to gripe about.

When the wine guys get together, drinking a vertical of the Old Hill Zin from Ravenswood going back to 1991, with that marvelous Lasagna al ragu Bolognese from Nonna followed by a three meat platter from Cobb Switch BBQ, I know it isn’t always about the wine. Or the food.

But I don’t see us resorting to drinking 2 Buck Chuck and eating a Whopper when we get together. We all like good things too much. What I have found, in this short time together, is something very hard to find in today’s modern world. It’s a group of men who have taken pleasure in the conviviality of brotherhood, under the guise of wine and food.

And that has been a gift that this city has given to all of us fathers, not just on Father's Day.

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

Learn to Forget

You have a wine placed before you. You might be a judge in a competition. Or you might simply be ordering a wine in a restaurant. In either case the wine is poured. Then, what do you do?

Most people look at the color and then move on to the aroma and the taste. But somewhere inside many of us is this little mental punch list. On it is memories, likes, dislikes, markers, highs and lows. Somewhere along the line many of us have gotten that punch list down to a narrow spectrum of what we like and are looking for in a wine. Just like people and foods and music.

With Italian wine, there is a fork in the road. One way says, stick to the tried and true (whatever that is for each person). The other way is this wild beach party where anything goes.

A man walks into a bar and the bartender hands him a taste of Barbera. The man pulls up his mental punch list:
• deep red color with intense violet hue
• raspberries, blueberries, strawberries blackberry, black cherries
• good acid structure
• low astringency
• lower level of tannins

The wine cannot seduce him, taunt him or convince him that it will be different. If so, it might come off as a flaw. And the dance is over.

“Your brain seems bruised with numb surprise,” the ancient song goes.

Just once, try and approach a wine you think you know really well and imagine you have lost your memory of it. Maybe that is the essence of blind tasting. But instead of trying to find markers, imagine this is the first time any wine has ever passed your lips.

Learn to forget.

It goes counter to what many Italian wine experts think they should do. They prefer to “speak in secret alphabets” as the same song continues. It’s the battle of the prefrontal cortex, memory vs. attention.

I’d love to know what someone like Roberto Paris might think about this. At this time Roberto is in the middle of a 10 day meditation retreat in India. I reckon it probably isn’t high on his punch list right now. But the clarity of his mind, after ten days, yes, I’d like to know his thoughts.

Suggestion: Next time you open a bottle of Chianti or Valpolicella, any wine really, instead of trying to figure out what it is and how it fits into those neat little boxes inside your mind, turn your mind loose and let it wander over the wine. Imagine the experience that wine might be, if you could learn to forget.

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

Bittersweet Memories

Eight years ago, I spent several weeks in Pantelleria. I had once been invited to the island in 1971 but never made the trip. In 2001 I finally made it. I rented a dammuso, one of the thick stone houses that characterize the island. I had a motor scooter and a supply of wine from a friend who had a winery there. My wife had died a few months before and I was verklempt from the battle she waged for three years and the ultimate loss. She had the real MS, multiple sclerosis. I cannot tell you how much I despise that disease. More than anything.

I had wine to drink and a little kitchen to cook in. I spent the days tooling around the island looking at the vineyards and other natural sights. In all, it was as good a way of mourning Liz’s loss as I could muster. There was a funeral on the island when I was there; a young person had lost their life in the sea. We were all sad that day.

The island had great seafood and ice cream. I started jogging there. I still eat seafood and ice cream. And I still jog. And of course, the Passito di Pantelleria is a very special wine to me, because of the bittersweet memory of the time I spent on the island.

I heard this song the other day on the Prairie Home Companion, by the Australian alt-country duo Kasey Chambers and Shane Nicholson. The song is an old American country one, called “When we're gone, long gone.”

Trouble, we have known trouble
In our struggle just to get by
Many times the burden's been heavy
Still we carried on side by side

And when we're gone long gone
The only thing that will have mattered
Is the love that we shared
And the way that we cared
When we're gone, long gone

And when we're walking together in glory
Hand in hand through eternity
It's the love that will be remembered
Not wealth, not poverty

And when we're gone long gone
The only thing that will have mattered
Is the love that we shared
And the way that we cared
When we're gone, long gone

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