Pour Decisions

I have looked at a lot of wine lists lately, in regards to Italian places, but not exclusively. One wine director recently bragged to folks at the bar, ”I tried to find things no one would recognize”. Really? Is that what I, as an owner, would like a beverage director to do to my wine program? Find things no one would recognize? What am I missing here?

If the consultant, director, whatever we call the person who designs a wine program, is at the restaurant all the working hours, it shouldn’t be a problem. But as it was, in the case of the place where the consultant put together a list of “unrecognizables”, two out of three times I was there, said consultant wasn’t there. So what good was this program?

A good friend recently told me, over lunch, "If you ain’t selling, you aren't here for long.”

Yιαγιά's Afghan

Last Monday I was at my computer at work and a message from my sister Tina popped up from Facebook. It was breviloquent. 10 words. 42 characters. “Just to let you know that Nick's mother passed away.” The funeral was to be the next day.

I later found out from my mother that Nick’s mother, Arianthi, passed away on the previous Thursday, before the earthquake in Japan. I probably would have gone if I had found out earlier, but as often happens, it was not to be. Just like when my wife Liz passed away, my mom came out. I told all the rest of the family to stay home; we’d have a memorial service for Liz in California. But as often happens, it was also not to be.

My brother in law, Nick, his family is Greek. His mother, Arianthi, whom we all called Yia-Yia (Yιαγιά), was a wonderful person. As was her husband, Demetri. But first, the afghan.

Thissur Pooram and Italy at 150 years: Something Worth Celebrating

My dear friends at Querciavalle celebrated the 150 years of Italian unity over a classic plate of pasta that mamma made. I have watched this winery pass from generation to generation (three now) in my short time knowing and loving these people.

Valeria writes, "Per celebrare i 150 anni, la famiglia Losi ha pranzato con delle belle tagliatelle fatte in casa,basilico, ricotta e pomodorini e ha brindato con un buon Chianti Classico Querciavalle 2007."

Valeria Losi sent me these pictures via Facebook. To me this is one of the triumphs of unity, something I would like to see more in America. Beautiful, traditional food, with beautiful, traditional wine made by beautiful, traditional people.

Blitzing with Barbaresco

What goes with BBQ besides Babaresco? How about a little 1990 Ridge Montebello for starters?

You’ve gotta love a guy like Aldo Vacca, who gets off a plane straight from Italy, and heads right into a situation that requires him to be “on”. Not that being at my home on a Sunday is exactly something you have to shine your wing tips for, but nonetheless, there he was, at the front door with bottles of his 2005 single vineyard Barbarescos, ready to get after some Texas BBQ, classic Caesar salad and King Ranch chicken casserole.

The idea for the week was for Aldo to come into Texas and swing his way from Dallas through Austin (right smack dab in the middle of SXSW) and ending up in Houston. By now he is readying to go to Colorado, but an intense few days it has been for one of the hardiest working men in the wine business.

Now is the time for YES!

My Sardinian friend Francesco, Cecio, showed up early Saturday morning for our yearly pruning of the fig tree ritual. Cecio learned from the old people in Sardegna how to prune and my fig tree wouldn’t let anyone else but him do the job.

The first time he did it the tree looked forlorn and hopeless. But I remembered seeing similar trees in Italy and offered up hope and trust that he was doing the right thing. He proved to be one who learned his lessons well from the old souls on that very ancient island. The fig tree has given back ten fold in fruit, much to the joy of the local mockingbird population.

But our morning together is more than a simple pruning. It is a way for me to connect with something old and ancient that I didn’t grow up with. Francesco came here twenty or so years ago, following his older brother who had established a successful Italian restaurant in town. They have since parted ways, gone on to do their own thing. I am not even sure they talk to one another anymore. They are both big trees and not subject to being pruned by one another. That seems to be the way of islanders. Fiercely independent, sometimes stubborn, but never unsure of where they are going. Sometimes it is over a cliff, but when they land at the bottom, it seems they brush themselves off and clamber back up to the top. Survivors.

Italy: Without a Doubt

When it all gets to be a little too much, when the heat of the day goes from tepid to searing, when all this running around and shuffling and commotion becomes just so much noise and distraction, I pull in. I want my own little vision of Italy to wield its power over me. I don’t want to worry about whether or not I speak or understand the language well enough. I never will. I’ll never be an insider in the language of words department. That’s for other people with those talents.

No, the little universe of Italy that’s wrapped around my heart and mind is a place somewhere in the middle, with rolling hills and a nearby beach with salty water and the setting for the happiness that Italy represents to me. My Italy isn’t perfect but it’s damn well near, and it works just fine for me.

Brunello Dunello:Words to Ponder in Times of Folly

Dune and Duner ~ further ruminations on the nature of Montalcino wine

He who controls the Spice controls the Brunello-verse!

He who can destroy a thing, can control a thing.
Frank Herbert

Authentic or Delicious: What’ll you have?

Two-steppin' between translation and interpretation

Maybe it’s that we are waiting for new releases. Maybe wine blogging is dead. I don’t read about how a wine tastes very often on line where it makes me want to go buy it and drink it. But then, I have plenty of wines that need to be tasted and hopefully, enjoyed.

Which leads me into what I really am thinking about. I think about it a lot. This whole genuine vs. innovative debate that appears on line and in person. I am really torn. I love, love, love real authentic Italian fare. I eat lots of it in Italy and 80-90% of it is also delicious.

The Call of the Wild

Recalling untamed dreams under a full moon

Italy, when are you going to let down your hair and get wild again?

How long has it been? What more of a signal do you need? The world is waiting on you; will you let it pass you by, one more time, again?

When I dream of Italy and the wine and the people and the politics, I just want to pack my bags and move to deep cover out West. I want to drift away from it all. I am talking of my dream of Italy now. Italy, what in the hell are you thinking? Get off your complacence and bring the wild back into your wines!

Adaptation

Was it a dream or did it really happen?

Outtakes from a storyboard imagining the direction a recent dinner might take in honor a member of a somewhat famous Italian winemaker family

The first course was a spinach salad, lightly dressed, and served family style. I am a shy person and know no one at the table save a few colleagues. Thankfully they were there. The winemaker was at another table. Really, really nice person.

Backing up first. I called the host and asked when the event would be over, as I wanted to stop by a friend’s restaurant and have a glass of wine with him. We talk food, he is on the cutting edge of Italian things in town, and I hadn’t seen him since December. The host said, wed be through about 9:30 tops. Great.

Pure and Simple

After two days of solid rain in the San Francisco bay area, I’m waiting. For the power to come back up. For the wireless to reappear. And for a better understanding of natural wines. Specifically, the Italian ones.

Before anyone thinks I’m about to take on the sacred cow, invoking the “N” word with unabashed acceptance and reverence, turn away. While I am a devotee of many natural things in life, I know things aren’t always what they seem. In essence, the words I heard uttered by one of the Renaissance men of the 20th century, Bucky Fuller, who told me to my face, “Anything that nature lets you do is natural.”

So, given a wide berth, I’ll dig in.

It started on the drive over the Bay Bridge from Berkeley to the City, on my way to Biondiviono to see a friend who brought in some winemakers for the Gambero Rosso tasting earlier in the week. A small reception for the winemakers and their wines in a convivial neighborhood setting in only the way one finds in San Francisco and other cities who have devoted their urban spaces to a accommodate the human scale. With dogs. My kind of place. The pump is primed.

Deep Dishin' and Dolcetto in da 'burbs- Ain't Life Sweet?

Just a quickie, ‘cause we’re on the run, with the family and hanging out in the East Bay. Last night we opted for Deep Dish Pizza and Dolcetto. With a Trader Joe’s a block away and a downpour, I headed into one of my old haunts. Wow, has TJ’s changed since I first went into the place back in the '70's. Lots of private labels and a generally dismal wine selection. Thank God Ceri @ Biondivino left us with a killer bottle of Rosso from Montalcino.

But there was a little bottle of Dolcetto begging me to take it home. Ok, not great, but @ 6.99, not bad either. Better than the mystery bastardo Nerello the wine guy was trying to sell me on. “These use indigenous grapes that we can’t put on the label” Yeah, right. A quick glance on the back label told me the importer ( whom we call the "wine criminals" back home, because nobody can import an Amarone to sell in the US for $17, unless it ain’t the real deal).

Elegia di Nera

I pulled out the bottle of 2000. Around this time it was being born, right about that time we were watching her last sunrise, she was breathing her last breaths. The appassimento was only ten years old, I shouldn’t have opened it. It was too soon. But things happen.

What can one say about the last ten years that this wine cannot? In ten years I have lived everyday without her, thinking about her, losing her everyday I wake up. She is now younger than me, than all of us. She doesn’t age, unlike this wine. But like this wine, neither had the time to grow old, really age. And so, once again, something is in front of me, dying.

The wine from the Veneto. I was just there. I should have gone down to Umbria and visited her site. I’ll go in the spring, when the lilies are covering her spot on the hill. Now, I am relegated to the gloomy skies of winter, and this bottle of wine and my memories of a love lost to the ages.

Colli Orientali del Friuli 2011: A Few of My Favorite Things

Fire and friendship on cold winter mornings

Farmers who work in their fields without stopping

Doors that are opened to reveal new mysteries

These are a few of my favorite things

The nail I hang my purpose on

Driving back to the airport in a fog. After a week with my compadres it’s time to go back home. Leave Italy. Again.

I have this thing I do when I am getting ready to leave Italy. I get nostalgic. Must be something I inherited from my immigrant grandfather. I look at the ledges of windows in a bathroom and imagine all the people who will come in and use this space when I am gone. Or looking down a walkway in a town, when on Saturday night, in the summer, people will walk, arm in arm, doing their little passegiata through their time on earth. I won’t be there, but Italy will be just fine.

A week in Friuli, one place, Colli Orientali, how valuable is that for one to get an idea of this Italianita? Who really knows? Traveling with folks who have such a command of the language, who confirm to me that I have no idea what the Italians are talking about, it has been like a forty year walk along the Italian landscape as a deaf man. I know nothing. Thank God I took my camera with me all those times.

So, what? Nothing. Just that I will continue to walk in my own way and see, if not hear, what it is that Italy is now.