Under the Prodigal Sun

You've been warned: This is a long one

“Why is it again that you don’t like air travel, Ace?” my friend Hank would ask me. Hank, christened Enrico, grew up in a rough and tumble time of scratching out a living doing something he hated, but persisted, for the sake of keeping food on the table and a roof over his family’s head. He made a tidy amount of money and was in the process of indulging himself over travel. This week he was in Vietnam, eating noodles in Ha Noi.

“I don’t know Hank, my legs are too long. And I always seem to get the fellow who, as soon as the plane lifts up, he drives his seat back as far as he can for the duration of the flight.”

And so it was on my recent trip to the West Coast. I had the obligatory knee-cruncher in front of me. The dark stars aligned for this flight, and I had a yappy Chihuahua woman seated next to me, all the while barking out orders to her elderly father two rows ahead of us. To my left was a large young man with a sensitive stomach who specialized in projectile vomiting. And to round out the Four Horsemen of the American Airlines Apocalypse, there was spawn of Satan, who practiced his blood-curdling screams all the way from Dallas to San Francisco, and as soon as we landed, proceeded to fall asleep (renewing his strength to accompany me on the return flight, I kid you not). Something special in the air, oh yes, I would say.

Fair enough answer for my amico Enrico as he slurps his pho and blogs far away from the wine trail in Southeast Asia?

Once I was on the ground and away from the circus of distractions that particular airline has become, my native state took me under her wing and tried to soothe her prodigal son.

San Francisco will always be a place of my youth. It exudes health, vigor, excitement, possibilities. I was in the mood for oysters and Muscadet, so I proceeded to dispatch a slew of the briny creatures before heading up to wine country. The oysters shined, but the Muscadet needed to go into assisted living. As I passed the endless vapors of chocolate from the Recchiuti brothel of cacao, I resisted their siren charms in the hopes of finding a good espresso.

A young Italian at the bio-organic counter brought me back to equilibrium. Recalibrating. Back on track.

The past few days I have had some incredible food and wine. Almost by accident. I couldn’t plan this kind of thing back home. But Northern California is more like Italy to me than Texas. Always will be. My tribe headed West for a reason. And why was it I went to Texas? Oh yes, the “f” word. Freedom. I had nothing but time to lose, 30 years ago.


Highlights of the food
The Girl and the Fig in Sonoma. If this restaurant were a woman, I would beg her to let me marry her. I would give up wine to eat the chicken they served me. Fortunately I found a California wine from a pal, Pellegrini Carignan, to see me through. One of the best chickens I have ever eaten and I loves me my chicken. First I set my allocation of calories by ordering the heirloom radish salad. Subtle. Crunchy. Filling. Spicy. The anchovy butter was a naughty but nice touch. The Makers Mark Manhattan was a bit of a gunfight with it, but it worked. Everyone lived.

Under the chicken, a bed of roasted squash, carrots, parsnips. Dessert to me. The bird was sex, drugs, satori, and salvation. I would rob a bank to pay for it. I would give up chocolate. Or blogging.

A day later, at the little Italian spot on the other side of the square, Della Santina’s, a cup of tortellini in brodo was as good as any I have had in Italy. I reckon I still need to eat at someone’s home in Emilia Romagna before I throw down that gauntlet. A glass of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo Cerasuolo was bright and steely. That wine would have been good with those oysters two days before. Somewhere else I have noted the Greco and the Grenache. Read back on them if you missed it.

Sardegna and Corsica, Sicily and the Marche, were the drivers at the impromptu bachelor(ette) party I had with my Cheese Diva, Paula, and her lively entourage. Some days I am Italian Wine Guy and sometimes I am Hoja Santa Farmer. Who says we have to be one thing?

But back to the Girl and the Fig. And the guy and the girl

I was seated at a little two-top in the corner, a perfect perch while I nursed my bourbon. In they danced. The server sat them at this little table in the middle of the room. Front stage and center. They didn’t object; they were happy to sit there. The woman was glowing. Her date, a man in his mid-50’s but elderly looking, didn’t seem the right match for her. But she would have nothing to do with anyone else’s ideas of who she should be with. She was smitten. She laughed, was giddy and pleasable. She gazed at this man as if he were a god. She was head over heels in love with him. Observing this couple would be my dessert. She touched his hand, looked him in the eyes. He was her true love. But the guy? Had he seen this before? Was this just one more love in a lifetime of loves, no lesser nor greater than the preceding love? Or the next one to come along? I have no idea, I wasn’t looking at him. The woman was youngish, mid-30’s tall, dark haired, Asian. She ate, she drank, but she feasted on her love. It was quite wonderful to watch. And it paired so well with the Carignan.

Good-bye Sonoma - Onward through the rain to the City
Washed out roads took me on a back-run jaunt through fields and hills until the sun poked out and 101 popped back into sight. An aging poet-rocker throbbed about her life on the radio. I had no pressing appointment, just responding to some emails and setting up appointments for the next month.

My bubelah from Dallas, Dave, called. Dave grew up in the Bay area, and he was the shadchen who got me and my wife Liz together, back in the day. He “felt” I was in California and wanted me to stop by O’Flynn’s place in the Marina to pick up some rare Pinot Noirs. As luck would have it, the shop had a sign, "back in an hour." I wouldn’t wait.

That evening, my Cheese Diva sends me an email – meet @ La Ciccia @ 7:30. Driving through the Noe Hill neighborhood reminded me of a time long ago when I knew a woman who lived there. She pursued me to the point of stalking me. I looked around as I parked, hoping she was a faint memory. Still, a tingle from the darkness of a city that took me from an all too serious childhood to a reluctant adulthood. Inside the little trattoria, a table waited with plates of fregula with tuna heart, pasta with bottarga, pane carasau and baby squids in vinegar and oil. The Cheese Diva had arrived early, and she and her entourage were getting their drink on, starting with a Vermentino. Soon, bottles of Pecorino and Nerello would clatter with the dishes and the cacophony of the crowd. Everyone was talking to everyone else. Glasses of Prosecchi were handed around, and the faint dialects of Cagliari and Sassari wafted from the long tables. I couldn’t have found a better place if I had been looking for it, but the Cheese Diva has the knack for food, for adventure, for early adaptation. Once, in Italy, I showed up at her place in Montalcino with a case of Chianti (oh, the blasphemy). Her response was to cut up a slew of rabbits with wild mushrooms (is there any other kind in the area?) and create a feast into the late hours of the night. I know with food, cheese and wine, I’ll never go hungry around the Cheese Diva.

This night, Sardegna was in full bloom. Sardegna was the missing sunlight that had been absent from the Golden State for some days now. The wine, the cheese, the pasta – all was bright and shiny now.

Pouring out of the balmy café into the steely saber of night, I took a deep breath. “Ladies,” for there were three of them and one of me, “let’s take this sorry bachelor(ette) party for a fallen friend to the wine bar and drink on.” And so, with the aid of a smart phone and a dry car, we plunged through the Mission district towards Terroir.

Inside, the proprietor unearthed a bottle of stinky Corsican red. Perfect. Wild grape tattooed with bitter amaro attitude. Sting was bleating on the speakers. This wasn’t a slammer – lentamente.

Many folks have told the story of Terroir better than I can. They had just reopened, and the place was rustic and simple and perfect. The stinky red – forged from a French-influenced mindset that makes a Sardegnan look low-key – exuded an isolation that doesn’t often reach the outer world. My friend, Eugenio once said, “Alfonso, you know those islanders,” as if I knew right then and there what he meant. I didn’t. But I do now. I am an islander – many of us live on islands of our own making. But this wine, the Patrimonio, twelve hours later I am still tasting it. I am so glad I didn’t order a Barolo or even a Barbaresco. No, the final act of the wine guy lost on the trail in the sunless sunshine state was best left by accepting this mysterious slow-churning red wine.

Can a wine love? If it can, could it love the way the woman loved that man at the Girl and the Fig? If he was unaware of it, couldn’t we be as unaware as well? Would that not be a tragedy to have a wine reach over and touch one and to not be touched by it?

I must be more sensitive to that possibility. There are so many wines waiting to open up and share their light. And their love.

If not, I’ll always have the Girl and the Fig. And the guy and the girl. And the chicken, that marvelous chicken.

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

A Knack for the Abstract

Little more than 7 hours in California and they have sunk their talons in me. Even though it now more resembles a Vegan-Disney gone to Singapore, the raw, naked beauty of the territoriality mystifies me.

Two wines tonight at a local hot spot, Rosso, in Santa Rosa. The first a Greco from San Francesco in Calabria, the Fata Morgana; old vines, bush trained, dry farmed and hand tended. The barkeep popped a fresh one and the flavors were crisp and chalky. A huge difference from the diffident Muscadet I'd had earlier with a dozen oysters @ Hog Island in the City. The only shape shifter was the French wine, heading south to the land of syrup. Post haste. The Greco was a perfect wine for the salad, a modified Caesar with the hot Calabrese chili sauce. It worked – and this is the gift Italy and the wines give to us: low expectations - high returns. No one would ever expect from a Greco what they would from a Muscadet. But the Greco was lithe, while the Muscadet was being wheeled into the ICU.

Not content with that, I ambled towards the Margherita. It’s Sunday, after all, pizza night in Italy. But no beer, while watching the Chelsea game on the big screen. No, not a Rosso Piceno, which I was salivating over. Here I was in Sonoma, how about a local wine, to be true to trying things in their place. Nearby a woman was asking about a Grenache and the server pedaled a Montepulciano from the Marche on her. In keeping with the contrary nature of a Californian in exile, I asked her about the Quivira. “It’s fab – try it.” Same thing she said about the modified Caesar, The hair on my back was standing up but I wasn’t paying attention. The earlier chair massage in the hotel had diverted my suspicion mechanism,. “Ok, let 'er rip, pour me a glass of the Dry Creek, dry farmed, organic, Grenache.”

Dr. P. would have been in stink-heaven. The wine had a balmy garrigue and culatello pungency- not that I was bothered by that – I was hoping for a Lambrusco moment, in lieu of beer. The Grenache was almost too much of a statement – but this is California – the spawning ground of possibilities, even as it turns into a Ridley Scott third world vision.


Somewhere in the world it's always hula night.

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

Extreme Makeover ~ Wine List Edition

Ziff & Dale are back!


Over the past month, with holidays and traveling, I have been in my share of restaurants. Usually we are in an Italian place, but not always. But inevitably I get handed the wine list. “Pick something,” I am told. If only life were that simple.

I have not always made the best choices in life, but a wine list shouldn’t be a life shattering experience. And while there are many more things worthy of our serious attention, this is the life I have chosen, and so, I wonder while I wander on the wine trail in Italy.

During this time period, I was sent a wine list from a restaurateur who wanted my input on his list. He’s a chef, has a wine warden, but I get the feeling they aren’t exactly seeing eye-to-eye these days. I could easily guess from looking at the wine list and the menu together. The menu is this graceful elaboration of small and thoughtful plates, utilizing seasonal ingredients, often sourced locally. The salumi, cured in house, is fresh and direct. One of the items I had, a ciccioli, was just a bite (The banquet is in the first bite, as Pollan likes to say) but was an explosion of wonderful, harmonious flavors. The chef knows food.

The wine list, however, was a mine field of overpriced, spoofulated wines, with the usual suspects from Tuscany and Piedmont. Really a shame these two never got on the same page. With a little luck, the wine warden will move on to a steakhouse. Soon. In the meantime, for this little place and for all Italian places that are looking to makeover their wine lists, here are some wines I would put on if it were my place.

Malvasia Bianca "Donna Marzia" from Conte Zecca – 2008 - A bright, slightly fat white from Puglia. Just enough body to favor cured meats pork, or a scallop dish with a smoked cauliflower puree. I have turned my friends on to this white wine since last summer. Giorgio Marone, who studied under Tachis, consults with this estate. I met Marone years ago at Illuminati and liked his laid back approach. The wine is fruity, fresh and sells in retail shops for under $10. In the right restaurant it should fly off the wine list for under $30. From Mionetto USA Imports.

Tramin Chardonnay – Alto Adige – 2008. Stainless steel. No oak. I was telling Damon Ornowski about it the other day. When I first got into drinking wine there were scads of inexpensive white wine from the Maconnais. Those days are gone, but I still like to get my drink on with a nice crisp chardonnay. Willi Sturz fashions such a creature from pre-alpine vineyards. I do not know why this wine isn’t on every Italian wine list in America, at least from the Mississippi river heading west. In stores it sells for under $15. On my wine list I would notch it at under $35. From Winebow.

Basilicata Bianco – Re Manfredi – 2008 - From Terre degli Svevi, who make a massive old school, Aglianico. Their white is another world. A blend, (grown in Basilicata, mind you) of Traminer and Muller Thurgau, grown at elevations of 1100 feet on volcanic and harsh slopes, just the place to build character. I find this wine to be a gulper, but I have to get it on a list first so more people can have that pleasure. It’s an odd confluence of grapes and locality, but these little miracles happen all the time. Now if we could just get the good Lord to put His hands over the small placements and let them multiply. In the retail wine shops it should be findable for around $20. I’d love to see it on a wine list for $39, but if someone asked $42 I’d sign up on the spot. From Frederick Wildman.

Gaglioppo - Statti – 2008- The other night we found ourselves in a classy place, Craft, with a wine list that was interesting enough to find more than one wine for the night. Kudos’ to the somm and the salesperson (and probably the importer) for getting this wine onto the list (now, if we could just get it onto an Italian wine list or two?). From Calabria, this wine is pretty direct – light color, delicate spice on the nose, good body, balanced flavors. This unassuming Gaglioppo is one of the perfect little wines that make a night out part of a great dining experience. Found in the stores for under $20, on Craft’s wine list it sold for $48. I can handle that. From Vias Wine Imports.

Barbera d’Asti “Villa Lisa” – Cascina Bruni 2008 – looks like a pattern here – 2008 vintages all of them so far. I reluctantly embraced this wine, as experience indicated that Barbera wines do not sell. But we got this onto the floor of the greatest Italian wine and food store in America and over the past 4 months they sold 100 cases of this wine. People loved, love, love this wine. One somm I showed it too poo-poohed it, “Too light,” “Not enough extraction,” “I like bigger Barbera’s.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, the little people like it. And I’m one of them. It’s the perfect Italian red wine for everyday. No romance, not even a sleepover. But you can get some satisfaction with this bright and cheerful red wine. It reminds me of my son's cat, who likes to wait at the door for people who come to his house. He's ready to play and jump around and have fun, and this Barbera is ready and attentive. And, at the end of the day, it’s a pussycat of a wine. A lap cat. Cuddly and warm and not too complicated. In the retail world it sells for way under $15. So, on a wine list it should be selling for $30 – max. From Tricana Imports.

Last one –

Montepulciano d’Abruzzo Vigna Nuove – Valle Reale – 2008

Folks who read these posts know how much I like Montepulciano from Abruzzo. The Illuminati’s are like second family to me. Maybe I am not as crazed as Sausage Paul, who has 15+ on his racks (way to go Paul!), but I do like me some Monty! This one, from Valle Reale, just rolled into my life and I can’t get enough of it. It is dense, nutty, a solid quaff. I do not know why more folks (i.e. young aspiring somms who want to make a career in the wine business) don’t pull their head out of their amphoras and dedicate themselves to giving pleasure to their customers. On the East Coast, Montepulciano is all over the place. West of the Mississippi, who knows what the hold up is? What I do know, is that one can make a career starting with one wine. If I were a young buck, I’d do it all over again and swing on this star. In the little Italian stores you can find this wine for under $15. Same as the Barbera above. From Winebow.

Do you see a pattern? Value? Quality? Drinkability? No barriques. No Spoof. No Testosterone.

So there you have it - my Six Picks- Extreme Makeover ~ The Wine List Edition. Read ‘em and weep. Good luck finding them. Most likely online they are readily available. Tell your friends. Tell your local restaurateur. These are wines worth seeking out.

"Take my wine — please."

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

Lady Corvina ~ The Back Story

I got a call from a friend. “Are you alright? Everything OK?” Well, everything is OK and everything has fallen into chaos. As it always has been. But for the sake of reassuring my friend, I asked him why he was so concerned. “Well, because, that last post about Lady Corvina was a little out there, AC.” So perhaps a little back story might be appropriate, if for no reason other than to illustrate the creative (?) process that ameliorates my ratiocination.

For those of you expecting a wine blog post, this ain't gonna be one.

I was cleaning my house and running the vacuum cleaner. As I move through the various rooms, there are emotive markers in them. In one part of a room there is always a thought that comes up about a friend who I haven’t seen in years. In another part, I will think of a cat I once had. And so on. Non-linear.

The day before I was visiting a friend of mine that lives nearby, who has been battling major health issues (to put it mildly). He lives right up the street where my wife spent the last month of her life in another battle many years ago. On Feb 17, 2001, she left us. During this time of the year, I think about that month, when we would spend hours sitting outside, if it wasn’t too cold, in the sunlight, looking at the trees. Or if it was, we would sit by an inside bird cage filled with scores of little chirpers. It was a bittersweet time, because she was dying and there was nothing any of us could do about it.

Back to the vacuum.

As I was vacuuming I heard this voice inside my head, the muse. She wanted to tell me a story. I wanted to finish cleaning the house. We compromised. I finished up quickly, with the inner deal being that I would sit down and make some notes for another time.

Well I finished, and sat down. And that’s when Lady Corvina sat herself right down next to me.

The only similarity Lady Corvina has with my wife was their initials (L.C.) and a shared anguish. In the case of Lady Corvina, she became one with the huge lake of Amarone that took her essence and joined it with the other grape souls waiting their time for immortality. This time of the year when the grapes sit and wither I often tell the story of those grapes waiting in the cold and the dark for their moment. But over the years they have become anthropomorphized within my cosmogony of the world as seen through the lens of the vine and the grape. It happened often in ancient Greek stories and in old Italian folk lore tales. I probably read too much of that in the last 30 years. Anyway, that was how it played out. I only hope my wife is at peace. I dreamt about her last night, for the first time in a log time. She didn’t speak, she just looked at me, smiled, and shimmered.

I do think of my dear Liz, often, but especially this time of the year when it was so witheringly cold and dark back then, and we had to wait out the last days in those bitter times. Like I told a colleague who just lost her husband before Christmas, there is never closure. You just get closer to the end of the tunnel, where there is more light and, hopefully, warmth.

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

Lady Corvina’s Lost Notebooks ~ The Final Months

In the last months of her life, Lady Corvina was said to have gone unhinged from the pressures of life. Will we, on this side, ever really know? Recently unearthed notebooks from the Terrre di Fumane archives show that she agonized until the last moments. And then it was as if she underwent a transformation of epic proportions. The following excerpts have been culled from the once thought lost notebooks of Lady Corvina of Fumane.


What are they doing to me? Where are they taking me?

Who are all these others? Why are they keeping us here?

Where are all my friends and cousins? My sisters? Brothers?

What is that nose, it sounds like a party somewhere down the hall. What are they celebrating? What is that intoxicating aroma coming from down there?

Why are they opening the windows? It’s so cold outside and the wind is blowing so hard.

I feel so dry and depleted. Thirsty. Hungry. Dying.

Who’s that? Why has he come for us? Where are they taking us?


What are those familiar voices? They sound like someone I once knew, but a chorus of them, humming, singing some song, mysteriously familiar. The sounds are getting louder, closer, the room is getting warmer.

What is this pressure I am feeling? Why are we all pressed in so close together, can barely breathe. But it is warmer, moister.


Now its getting darker, it looks like the sun is setting, slowly getting darker, more pressure; I feel like I'm going to burst. I’m so tired, cannot fight it, cannot hold up any longer.

Where is this place, what happened to me? Who am I? What is that bubbling sound, its coming nearer, nearer, like a wave, a tsunami of red and sweet and moist and I feel like I am dying. But it feels alright, everything is going to be alright. It’s just a matter of time.

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

The Ring, the King & the Fire

In the course of a few days I have witnessed an almost complete 180° of emotions in the play of events around me. Yesterday was the end of the year, in the wine biz, and one could sense that in this past holiday season, we pressed that squeegee until there was no more to extract. Bone dry. Every last drop. And that’s what we do.

The good news? French wines in December made a huge rebound. Not Bordeaux, but definitely Champagne. And Italian wines? Are we celebrating yet? Yes and no. Yesterday was the Epiphany and in the world in which I revolve around, one of our colleagues brought a Rosca de Reyes, the ring of the king cake. Consider it the Latin equivalent of the Panettone, complete with a little baby Jesus inside for some lucky soul to capture and have good luck.

In these parts, the Italian sensibility is a bit more exotic and removed, so I have gladly latched onto some Latino customs. I am after all putting up scorers of jalapenos. Jalapalooza we called it. The Fire.

I am on fire. After a selling season it is hard to come down. The curtains have closed and the lights are dimming, but I am just getting my groove on. People are coming to think of Italian wine as something in their daily lives.

Flash back a generation ago, when I was just getting my bearings here. I’d go to Italy and come back home and couldn’t even find a decent espresso. Things in Italy haven’t changed that much since then – there still is a consciousness of quality, especially when it comes to food and wine and design. Sure, Italy is evolving and even regressing in some societal ways, but it isn’t difficult to find food and wine to bring one to one’s knees, on a regular basis.

The Epiphany – the tree comes down now – the little angels that my aunt and my mom made, go back into the boxes for another year.

Here, I am finding the pull of the local, the indigenous, that draws me in. My jalapenos are curing and through the cold months they will provide me with warmth and light.

There I was with a mountain of jalapeno’s and a free afternoon. I had to set the mood, so I put on a Nino Rota cd of music he composed for Fellini movies. Why not?

Cutting jalapenos to the sounds of “Suite dal balletto La Strada" or "Via Veneto E I Nobili" it was a Heaven and Hell scenario. I loved the music, but my eyes were tearing up from the pungency of the peppers. Rota also composed music for the film version of Visconti’s “Gattopardo”, Zeffirelli's “Romeo and Juliet” and Coppola’s “Godfather”, so I have grown up with the music of Nino Rota in defining moments of my life.

Odd that the music, which has been running through my head the past few days, has been a sort of a soundtrack for my life too. It has defined some of the ways I see Italy, been my sonic filter to an Italy imagined. In no way does the Italy in my head exist. But then, did Fellini’s Italy really exist? Or di Lampedusa’s? And so it goes, I lived life the past 40 years with an idea of Italy that is not real. So why should Italian winemakers listen to me when I tell them what America wants or needs? I grow Hoja Santa for my local cheese maker and put up fiery hot peppers to eat, peppers which the average Italian stomach cannot digest?

Gold, frankincense and myrrh. Sangiovese, Nebbiolo and Montepulciano. Panettone, Rosca de Reyes and Kings cake. Christmas, Valentine’s day and Mardi Gras. Everything merges into everything.

Yes, it has been a long holiday season. Yesterday was the 37th of December, the end of a long cycle. Happy New Years. Finally.

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

When life on the wine trail in Italy just ain’t spicy “enough”

From the "Some like it Hot" department

Happy New Year, y’all. This looks like the last weekend I’m going to have for a while, what with wine judging’s and weddings and wine seminars slated for the upcoming weeks, followed by all kinds of travel.

So this weekend it’s now or never to “put up” our jalapeños. Jalapeños have become a harvest tradition in the last few years; we planted them along with the other indigenous articles on the garden, the Hoja Santa and the Epazote. These are all things foreign to the Italian sensibility, but indispensable to the Auchtochtono Tejano. And after 30 years, I am also one of those.

New pepper sauce finds from Oaxaca. Even with a name like Zaaschila, I bet Dr. Zaia would ban these in Italy

In fact, and most likely owing to my Calabrese and Sicilian roots, I love hot food. I remember my sister Tina and I had contests when we were kids to see how we could eat hotter foods than the other. Years later we transformed that sibling rivalry to the kitchen when we competed to make hot sauces, each one more fiery than the other. I bow to my sister for her ultimate tolerance for things hot, but we in Texas have an ongoing love affair with the hot and spicy foods of México and I am no different.

While it is often hard to find truly authentic Italian food in these parts, the food of México and Tex-Mex are easily found in abundance and in varying degrees of authenticity and regional correctness. I love tamales, especially this time of the year, along with the sopas and tacos found everywhere.

I love that they call this brand "El Guapo" - meaning good looking, troublemaker, boastful and a ladies man, some of which I have been in the various stages of my life.

Today, during a lull at the one of the world’s greatest Italian wine and food stores in America, I walked across the street to a new market, specializing in the foods of MesoAmerica. Along with finding a stash of new hot sauces, for the living collection, I gathered up the fixins for a seasons worth of jalapeños to “put up”. At 3 pounds for a dollar, I splurged and bought 12 pounds of the big juicy peppers, several heads of garlic, some bay leaf and black pepper. The only thing missing was the vinegar. But back across the street I knew I could find any number of wonderful vinegars to complete the canning project. A quick trip to the local (large) grocer for some glass jars, and tomorrow we will be in "Hot Pepper Heaven."

One of my favorite "value" vinegars from Carbonara Scrivia in the Colli Tortonese

Speaking of hot peppers, I often go back to the Marche-Abruzzo border to visit my friends, the Illuminati's. One of our pilgrimages is to go into Ascoli Piceno and beyond for the mushrooms. Acquasanta Terme is a great little town, worth visiting, especially if you ever travel the Via Salaria back towards Rome or on your way towards Umbria from the Marche or Abruzzo. In Acquasanta Terme there are a couple of notable restaurants I have enjoyed over the years, La Casaccia and Tre Lanterne. For the quality and the value of what we eat in these places, one could only wish to find something like that in Dallas or Austin, or New York. Indescribably delicious, wholesome and authentic.

In Acquasanta Terme there is also a little outlet store, RITI, a family owned business that supplies dried porcini mushrooms and a hot sauce that rivals my dear Calabrese ones. I am always asking folks who go to Illuminati to bring me back several bottles, luring them with the promise of a great meal at one of the recommended places. It always works and is a win-win for everyone. And I gets me my Italian hot sauce fix for the pantry.

I don’t know what it is about hot foods – but they make me happy – and during the winter season when it gets dark early I seem to rely on the curative and restorative properties of peppers to bring me back to an equilibrium where I feel light and hope and am ready to run another mile or two. Like I said, win-win.

And that is my 2 cents worth for the day – We’re on to a new pizzeria which is BYOB and hopefully we can stay away from the sinful tiramisu and bruschetta (here spelled correctly and pronounced “broos'ketta”).

Ciao for niao- never half empty - always half full, with more on the way!

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

“Cris” Kringle, Hot Shots, Dream Wines & Mad(e) Men

One more day to go for calendar year 2009. Yesterday Sausage Paul was in the mood to pop a few bottles, starting with some Nicky Feuillatte Rose’ Palmes d’or. I dropped by his place in the morning with a little "bling" for his New Year stocking. I know Luca Zaia is trying to get everyone in Italy to drink Italian sparklers. But here in Texas we have an affliction to mix it up. And bubbles are part of the reason we liven up after working three months non-stop to try and get as much wine into the hands of deserving folks in these parts. But today was birthday for two gents, Paul and Joe Akers.

We need a name for Joe Akers, something that fits his demeanor. Let’s see, he likes wine, women and money. How about Joey the Whack? Anyway it was Sausage Paul and Joey the Whack’s tandem birthday – imagine born on the same day in the same year – separated at birth and joined together by a love for Amarone.

Joey the Weasel (aka Joe Strange Eye) couldn’t make it. He was busy loading up his vehicle to make hot shot deliveries to restaurants that had last minute “needs.” A coupe of days ago we had five minutes of snow and everybody in town panicked, started canceling New Year’s reservations, And then when the snow melted, 10 minutes later, everyone, and then some, called back, panicking that they wouldn’t get a New Years Eve seat in the restaurant of their choice. Anywho, Joe couldn’t make it.

A couple of veterans and a young lion did show up though. Adelmo was in rare form. Everyone brought a bottle of wine from their stash. Jermann’s "Dreams", the ’05 La Louviere, a tanned and sassy ’97 Solaia, a 2000 Ghiaie della Furba from Capezzana, a 93 Brunello and a bubbly from the Texas, Mexico, New Mexico border town of Canutillo, Texas. Huh? I’d never heard of it either, but there it was from the Zin Valle Vineyards, predictably named “Rising Star.” Well, of course.

Adelmo is my neighbor and man, his trash can fills up with a lot of wine bottles during the holidays. Today we had a beautiful lineup for the recycle tub. And we got to try wines from France, Italy and Texas before the year expires.

After the Rose’, Adelmo poured me a glass of deep yellow wine. I didn’t look at the label but when I tasted it I thought I was drinking a passito chardonnay. I didn’t recoil from it, but it caught me off guard. “I love this wine,” Adelmo proclaimed. “I don’t know what it is about it, but everything is in place with this wine for me.” I could see that. It was spoofulated and statuesque, but not grotesque. It went well with the ceviche. Ok, I’d go along for the ride.

A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams."

The last time I had the 2005 La Louviere was in Bordeaux out of the barrel. This time it was showing “advanced tendencies”. The wine seemed super-ripe, California-like. Odd. Again, Adelmo’s is a vortex and funny things happen in his place. We were sitting there making fun of each other; he likes to claim that Sicily is the only Arab country that has never invaded Israel. I countered that one cannot really allege to be Tuscan when their claim to fame is as one of the bastards of Napoleon when he was marooned on Elba. A couple in the corner heard our banter and the young lass let out a whoop. I think she wanted to join the drinking party (and she eventually did). But that is the way we rolled that day.

Adelmo’s friend, Danny, who got out of the retail wine and sprits biz (but not out of real estate), brought a bottle of ’97 Solaia. Danny and Joey the Whack and Adelmo are travel buddies who go to Italy from time to time. They leave a trail of broken “Dream” bottles wherever they go.

All of us are tied to one or the other in the wine biz. Beat, "The Swiss Missile" we all have known for so long, is a passionate guy about any kind of wine. And he is fiercely competitive. David is the other “money” guy in the group; he loves to eat and travel and drink wine and make money, so now he’s part of the tribe of characters. The Young Lion, Ben, has these wild looking eyes – if you didn’t know him you might think he’s getting ready to cloud up and rain on you. But he’s good. He loves wine and selling for his small company and he was so proud of loading up his car with the Texas Bubbly and going out with hand invoices to deliver the wine on the spot. I remember doing that a generation ago with an Italian Novello. It’s front line excitement, making things happen, right here, right now. Feels good.
A pasta dish with clams (why do those waiters bring the cheese around to ask us if we want any?) followed by a lamb chop (with more pasta, this time gnocchi) and then a small plate of veal. My regimen is getting close to being shot this day. We open the Super (reductive) Tuscan from Capezzana. These guys loved it – but they also love big red wine from the Veneto and Napa. I get it; I was on that bus once upon a time.


A mystery carafe appears – a 93 Brunello – from Banfi – maybe the Poggio all’Oro? It was pretty calm compared to the previous wines (that’s right) and it was almost in a hibernative-stage. We were moving through wine pretty fast now.

Slabs of bread pudding appeared on a small plate along with another wine, Feudi di San Gregorio "Privilegio", a botrytis passito of Fiano from Cotarella. I had a slight epiphany here. Cotarella knows how to do ripe, fruity, rich. I wonder what he could do with a Sagrantino in the “old style”. He does an Aleatico that’s a jam-fest. The Privilegio was a little over the top, but it was in keeping with the general theme of the day.

To come (full?) circle, we ended with the Texas Brut, which was fruity. “Rising Star” from Canutillo, Texas. A stone’s throw from Juarez.

The young lass who was admiring our tall tales and all the wine finally came over to see what the stir was all about. Her lunch companion had to get back to work. Some people do have to stoke the fires of the American economy, after all. So we toasted him and he set sail, while she looked at the lineup in amazement. For all I know, they might all still be there drinking in the New Years. As for me and Adelmo, she shot us in our Spy vs. Spy coats. Mine was a gift from a friend whose husband (who was a real Mad Man on NY in the 1950’s and ‘60’s) had passed away. It was a great gift to go into the next year, with a vintage Burberry Spy coat, with hidden pockets. Big enough to hide a bottle of Cristal. Or Jacques Selosse? Like I said, we like to mix it up in flyover country.



See you in 2010!

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

4 Years & 535 Blog Posts Ago...

…I started On The Wine Trail in Italy on December 28, 2005. My first post was pretty basic, a picture of Monte Vulture with a cluster of Aglianico grapes in the foreground. The impetus was from a friend, David Anderson, whose blog, Italian's Insight to Travel Italy, was this constant force of nature that compelled me to stay up with. David has stopped blogging for now, gone on to other things. But he was my guide and I thank him for starting me down the road of the bloggy-blog world.

My first commenter was My Life Italian blogger, Tracie Branch. We became pen pals and when she moved back to Texas, I adopted her as my Italian Wine Daughter. She is marrying another blogger, whom I met in NY (in his soul-patch days) via reading about him on blog-colleague Eric Asimov's The Pour. One day I suggested they "friend" each other on Facebook. The rest is history.

This is my 536th (and not last) post. I have been asking bloggers "if circumstances were presented to you that you were compelled to stop blogging, would you stop blogging?" Feel free to chime in here; I will compile the answers in another post down the road.

In the meantime, we have until the 37th of December (this year) to make homes for all the Italian wine in this O-N-D period. And Sausage Paul and Joey the Weasel (aka Joe Strange Eye) and the cast of characters and I are going to be busy right up until then. I havent talked to Beatrice or Arthur lately - I hope they're doing OK and will contribute to these pages soon.

Four years, 500+ posts, and that is just this blog, not too shabby. All done after hours, while holding down a pretty cool job. Life ain’t so bad for this wine-blogger.


Now, if I could just get someone in my family to answer their damn phone.

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