Pardon me, if I'm sentimental

I just got back from little 'ol Ittly and I knows y’all wants me to ante up on this here Eye-talian trip. I promise all y’all I’m fixin’ to unload a whole kettle full of memories (My pix here if ya just can't wait). But for them of you who never made it to Dallas in the fall for the Great State Fair of Texas, shame on ya!

In the meantime, enjoy the absolutely awesomest pictures ever made at the best fair in the whole wide world. Teresa Rafidi is a great shooter and a friend and she gave me permission to post these pix from yesterday. But don’t y’all steal them without giving her due credit, ya hear me? See more of her work here. It oughta be against the law to be as good as she is, but I'm glad she is.

The food, the crowds, the weather, and just being back home, home where I feel the best in the world. Even with all this gol’darn pollen.

Enjoy!

Pardon me, if I'm sentimental
When we say goodbye
Don't be angry with me should I cry
When you're gone, yet I'll dream
A little dream as years go by
Now and then there's a fool such as I

Lyrics from A Fool Such As I by Bill Trader

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

Photography by Teresa Rafidi © All rights reserved

Plenitudinous Prosciutto Porn in Parma

...from the Hog Heaven Hotwire

The good Doctor in Austinopoli wants pictures? My amigo in Napa loves pork? Well have at it boys. An afternoon in a prosciutti palace near Parma, the Galloni Fratelli producer in Langhirano was the setting for these images. I’ll keep the words to a minimum so you all can feast your eyes.

There was about $40,000,000 worth of prosciutti in the building.

I just received an email from Roberto Bava who said of one of their lines of prosciutti, “They use Stradivario Barrique for seasoning it.” The Stradivario barrique Roberto talks about is the barrels he ages his Barbera Superiore in. I cannot imagine how the used barrique finds its way into the prosciutti, but there you have it. Italians are crazy about barrique.

Seriously, this is some of the finest ham I have ever had, and I am no fan of ham. But “when it Langhirano”…

One of the current proprietors, Mirella Galloni, faced an uphill battle coming into a male dominated culture and industry. Mirella is no shrinking violet, and she has an amazing take on culture and cuisine. It was great having a simple meal of prosciutto and bread, lubricated with the always excellent Alta Langa Brut from Giulio Cocchi, my friend Robert Bava’s winery.

Let the images be all the feast you need, for as we say, “one picture is worth a thousand prosciutti.”

With my two "handlers", Michaela and Giovanna, in our "special suits".

This one reminded me of a French Impressionistic painting

Close up and personal

An implement from a horse femur is used to

evaluate the aromatic development of the prosciutti

A blog post wouldn't be as fun without one of the ubiquitous photo ops with then Agri-Minister Luca Zaia hamming it up for the camera. Zaia is the Zelig of Italo-politics and is now Governator of the Veneto Region.

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

Note: this post was written as a result of being on an invited tour of Emilia and Tuscany by the Italian Trade Commission

The real wine crisis in Tuscany

Is not about Sangiovese on a hilltop town called Montalcino. To face the struggle for Italian wine in Tuscany, one needs to go west and work oneself down the sliver of sea and soil that holds so much hope for those producers who have staked their lives on the promise of a land called Maremma.

Here is where aspiration seethes with allusion, spiked with the absinthe of international grapes, laced with high alcohol and over-the-top fruit, threaded with all too powerful and intense oak and finished with a sticker-shocking price tag.

I was sitting in a cool, dark room near Parma decorated with $3 million worth of some of the finest prosciutto I’d ever had, and a marketing person is talking to me about her favorite wines. The subject comes to Sassicaia. “Sassicaia has only gotten to be recognized as one of the best wines in Italy in the last ten years. It is due to the power of the personality of the owner and their way to promote their wines in the world.” Perhaps that is the perception in Italy. I had never thought of it quite like that. I remember back to the wines of Sassicaia a generation ago and thought that was their golden moment. Now the wines are beyond the grasp of those who first fell for them, and the wines have moved into another reality. They have become celebrities, walking the red carpet, stopping for the paparazzi. But, like a beautiful starlet, does anyone really take them home to meet mamma anymore? E, Piero?

Not meant to indict Sassicaia, are they to blame for reaching for those dollars of the collectors who have been hammered by endless Wine Spectator, Gambero Rosso and Decanter stories about their being the greatest wine from Italy? It’s a problem many in Italy would love to have. No, the issue, as I see it, is the shifting tides of wine tastes in the world, and in Italy, and the interplay of those tastes with the emergence of wine as a status symbol and economic indicator. Peruse Asian wine blogs such as La Grand Rue and it is pretty evident there are those in that world who revere wines like Sassicaia with the same reverence as Latour or Margaux. Those wines convey a different meaning to them than they do to me.

Which brings me back to the cool, dark room filled with prosciutto. Conversation with the owner of the factory ensued, about how one does business with the Asian market. I commented that I could see how a Japanese person might see prosciutto as exotic and thence, desirable. The owner corrected me. “No, it is not like that. It has to do with how we share our idea of cuisine.” (I could see I was in line for a vaccination on how an Italian thinks about food and explains it to an ignorant American).

“It has to do with our process; you see prosciutto is simply the best when it is served by itself, perhaps with a crust of bread. Simple. Not complicated. Perfect. ” Seeing as that was what we were doing, and it was perfect, I had no argument.

No, my idea was that this fabled landscape might appear to be alluring (which it is, through my lens) and there is the point of contact. Prosciutto, on the level that we were experiencing, can take a person wherever it wants to. And if that transports one to something remarkable, so be it.

Likewise, with wine. The weaving of the tale of the Maremma, with the history, the almost forgotten Italian region, the seemingly impossible events that lead to it being an emerging wine region, and the insertion of a style that appeals to a non-Italian taste (and pocketbook) created a perfect storm for Tuscany.


And that is where the vortex of this crisis revolves. Not so much around where or even what, in regards to place or grapes. Or even technique. No the problem is centered in the kernel of the idea of how we promote Italian wine, to the faraway countries and in Italy as well. We have taken it from an everyday beverage and replaced that with coke or kiwi soda. And we have elevated wine to the status of a thoroughbred horse, similar to the ones that graze on the gentle hills of the Maremma. And that creates an artificial reality, one in which we all mimic landed gentry. And, as dear Piero knows all too well, there isn’t room for all of us to live in that manner. Nor do we all aspire to such an elevated status in life.

There remain, for those of us who search on the wine trail in Italy, simpler pleasures, unfettered with desire for more than that which we really need. So we dart into one of the older caverns and hopefully wait for the storm, or another generation, to pass. And hope that Italy will re-embrace what draws so many to her. Simple. Not complicated. Perfect.

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

Art by Dormice: Heinrich Nicolaus and Sawan Yawnghwe, who live and work in Tuscany

In Praise of the Wild

From the archives December 8, 2006

Last night a coyote was spotted in the neighborhood. Several e-mails were in my in box about it. One suggested we call animal patrol if we saw the creature. My first thought was, “They're coming back.” I was excited.

Years ago when I lived at the edge of the Angeles National Forest in Southern California, these guys were part of my daily life. I saw them when I took my dog and son for a walk in the hills; we’d hear them serenading at night. I like them. They represent nature’s ability to spring back, to return the shriek of civilization with their own enduring howl from the unbroken, the path of nature reclaiming her stake on the land.
Are there wines that have responded to that ideal of the wild? If you have ever had a wine from Pantelleria you might say so. Certain Primitivo wines from Puglia are clear on this, as is Gravner in the north near Gorizia.

Biodynamic is the new Pagan in Tuscany

I am thinking that in Tuscany the human touch could use a little more of that dance with the wild dog. Certainly Rampolla understands this, as do some of the producers in the southern Maremma. Umbria might be well on its way to a clearer understanding of this. Some of the red wines from Montefalco approach this, and certainly their older wines - the Orvieto antico back in the caves, laying, waiting like some long forgotten time capsules.

Amaro and grappa might very well be on that list. Averna is now a calmer version, but in its first days I could only imagine. But why, all I need do is get in to the way-back machine and remember the first time I put a Cynar to my lips. That was a trip back to the 9th century Sicily when the Khilafah reigned over the island.
And the power of fire of the magic al-ambic transformed the crushed remains of the grape into something raw and harsh, but transcendental, too. Susanna Gualco in Piemonte understood that in a way that made her a force of fire, a female acolyte Romano Levi would aspire to huddle over the cauldron with.

There is a lot to praise, but today I am looking for wines that answer that call of the wild and usher back in the unpredictable, the powerful, the un-manipulated. And I am keeping an eye out for my new neighbor.

Perception is Reality

From the archives October 7, 2007

The picture above is a favorite of mine. It hangs in my bedroom. Shot by James Evans, who lives out west in the Big Bend area of Texas. It is of a bull snake on a couch. I love it for the texture and the movement and the hint of danger.

But the bull snake isn’t lethal. It just looks that way.

Things are all mixed up these days. We seek local and pummel the word sustainable about, like a swordfish being cut up for the seafood counter. But what are we really looking for? Are we looking for the truth? Do we want to fear something that really isn’t worthy of such trepidation? How does that relate to this Italian wine thing?

Let’s look at these words: local, unique, safe, affordable.

Local- Unless you are in Italy, Italian wines aren’t going to be considered local. So one must consider the trade off. You can get a local wine in most places, and it should be good enough for your needs. You could also drive a car (If you are in the US, a Chevy, for instance) and it will get you where you want to go. One doesn’t need a Maserati anymore than one needs a Brunello. Oh, but, you say, you like the Maserati and the Brunello? Because it is unique. OK.

Unique – Just like Bar-B-Q is unique in Texas, or Ruby Red grapefruits from the Big Valley down there, things unique have a way of endearing themselves to folks. They are dear and often precious. Taste, texture, feeling, scent, many facets of the jewel that one is attracted to. Italian wines are unique and so because of that people are drawn to them for pleasure and enjoyment, stimulation, physical as well as intellectual. And because of this we can be reasonably assured that the product is good for us. It is safe.

Safe- very much buzzing about this lately. People are inventorying their possessions and jettisoning things made in China. Clothing made in Bangladesh or Costa Rica, are the conditions for the workers safe? Or would their lives be worse off if they didn’t have that job? Meat packers in the US, in the early 1900’s, children in factories in the late 1800’s, scenarios that played out for cheap goods but at the expense of the health and welfare of the humans, or other living creatures, involved in the production of these materials. Today not many of us make our own clothes, and fewer and fewer are making their own meals. Italian wines, while not all have been always safe, have a record as good or better than much of the world wine producing areas. And often affordable.

Affordable – Up until recently Italian (and European) wines and other goods have been a good deal for those using the US dollar. There is a pause, at this moment, because, we are seeing the erosion of the US currency. The Canadian dollar is climbing over it, the Euro has left it behind, the Yuan is a rising red sun. An Italian Chianti now sells for about US$12.00, on average. Yellow Tail Shiraz sells for US$8.00. Now there is a difference; the region, the grape, the experience. But the challenge in 2008 and 2009 will be large, and marketers and wine lovers will be challenged to make sure they don’t sacrifice unique and safe over affordable.

The snake is in the living room, settled and comfortable on the couch. It will take plenty of effort and courage to look it straight in the eyes and determine if it is dangerous or not. The challenge, of our perceived view of things, will be to generate a reality that will still honor the local producers (even if they are thousands of miles away) and encourage them to retain their unique qualities along with continuing to make them safe and wholesome and if possible, within our means.



Photographs: Top one by James Evans; all the rest from the Flickr Italy in Black & White photo group.

Rush Hour

There was something about those red legged lubber grasshoppers that leaped across our paths as we hiked across the desert in those days last week. Contrast it with this week, when I braved the freeway in the early mornings to make a meeting or a doctor’s appointment.

As I stared out a window in one of those meetings this week, looking at the sky, the hint of a cloud, knowing behind all the noise, the dust, the light there were galaxies of light in greater battles than any I could manufacture in my little life.

I felt doomed. Everything was going well. But the bigger picture invaded my mind, not letting me go back to civilization. “Stay here a little while longer,” the childhood voice from the desert repeated in a mantra-like drone, all through the days back from West Texas and the Big Bend.

What to do? What to do? Life back in the city demands and cries out for an answer.

Back on the trail, the lubber grasshoppers, they were so welcoming in their hyper-kinetic chatter as they clipped by us, happy in our return to nature. Not so, on the freeway, where so many times this week I was nearly run off the road. One driver, a young woman, blond and taut, in her snow blind white Hummer, cut me off and then turned back to flip me off and show me her fangs. She was a devil with 400 horses. I cannot fight that amount of hate. Will not.

Nothing whatsoever to do with uncovering another great Italian wine or telling the tale of a legend or a fable about my beloved Italy and her wines. There are those stories out there saying it so well anyway, why should I imitate those? Will not.

But West Texas has woven me into the fabric of their lore; I am becoming a Westerner more and more as I go out there. I want to give away everything; the ancient chest of drawers, the vintage furniture, the endless pots and pans, the mementoes, the collection of ephemera, everything that will turn to dust anyway.

And wine? What of it? Do I want to gather any more in my dusty closet, only to wait another 20-30 years? I cannot imagine how either the wine or I will be any better then. Don’t want to imagine it.

Sitting with an old friend, he is 6 years shy of 100. An active man. A man’s man. He is slowing down. He is saying more and more, “It was a hell of a run.” His life splayed before him as the great adventure.

How many of us will be able to look back and say that their life has been the adventure of a lifetime? Can you? Will I? Do any of us have the guts to distill it down to the essence and live with it? Like the bugs in the desert?

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

My Favorite Island

One might think from reading these posts that it might be Pantelleria or Salina, Elba or Ischia, but in my heart, my favorite island is landlocked. It’s a large and varied island on the border of Mexico. It is in the state of Texas, and while it is Texas to the core, it shares none of the mean spirit that one can find in cities. It is wild and it can be life-threatening, but it is never cruel. It is the Big Bend, and I love it as much as any place on earth.

I go to Italy for business, and often when I am there I have a moment or two to relax. But when I want to go where the cells phones don’t roam and I cannot be found, that place is the National Park of Big Bend, where I can hike and wander to my heart’s content. The wine and food scene isn’t so great, unless one goes to Marfa, where I had one of the best meals I have had this year. But that isn’t the reason why I go to my favorite island. I go there to get away and to go somewhere where away isn’t away. It is in smack-dab in the middle of a world that heals me. It’s real and it’s in my face and I love it.

The weather was perfect. The hiking was strenuous at times, like the day we hiked to Emory Peak. The first time I went to the summit in 1990 I was 20 years younger. This time I was in better shape. This time we saw less than a dozen people on the trail, all day. And that was the most people we saw on any day on any trail. So the traffic jams of Yosemite and Yellowstone, well, they just don’t make it down to the Big Bend.

The light, oh the light. Daylight, twilight, midnight light, oh so very wonderful. I was testing a new camera, one that shoots in a square format. Yes, a digital camera that sells for under $500 and crops the image in a square. I have my Rolleiflex groove on again! But this isn’t the post to talk about that subject; it’s in the works. No, this post is how the desert helps and heals.

When I left the city, my nose was bleeding daily, sometimes for as long as 90 minutes. Blood pressure? My doc prescribed a blood pressure medicine and my already normal blood pressure lowered so much I almost passed out. How about the stress of city living? Texas, the country, is rough and harsh, but not mean. The cities, however are filled with people who I don’t know where they came from, there is so much mean-spiritedness, so much vitriol, so very toxic. I don’t know how they live with themselves. I know I cannot live with them, and even though I live in the city I cannot let them poison me any more. I will not bleed out from living amidst the hate vampires in the city.

My favorite island, then, doesn’t rely on great food or wine, but on a land, that while it can be harsh and unforgiving is never unfair or mean. It draws on the light of the heavens and all the planets and suns that spit their light on this darkened landscape at night. So bright it woke me up one night coming through the window. It is nowhere near water or my beloved Pacific or Adriatic, but there is water enough to survive. And air, what beautiful, dry, clean air, which heals with every breath.

Does it sound like I had a great week off? Well, I did. And tomorrow I jump back onto the metropolitan carousel and take a spin for another week. And I am thinking where it will spin me will be someplace I have never been to yet. But I am hopeful, I have the mountain lion roaring in the night to guide me through the brush.

And I will always have my favorite island, deep in the heart of the real Texas, waiting, anytime I, or anyone of us, need to be shown the way back home.

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

A Jew and an Italian walk into a cubicle

“Hey Alf,” says Lew, “Where are you? We want to go get some Eye-talian food and we haven’t seen you all week? Are you still in Italy?”

“Hey Lew,” says Bert, “Why are you bothering the poor fellow, he’s just trying to take a week away from all this stress, all this mishegas.”

“Bert, stick to using those Eyetalin phrases you are so fond of and leave the mishegas to my people.” Lew replies.

Hey guys, can’t we all get along? I’ll be back Monday, with all kinds of new ideas and stories and a scoop or two. And I have some big news too!

Pazienza, ragazzi, y’all need to go to Jimmy’s and share a Muffalleta and call me Monday morning.

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