Tasting Tuscany: Today’s Challenge for Chianti

Wed, Feb 20
Earlier this week, I sat on a panel. We were judging at the Dallas Morning News Wine Competition. Day one was California; Mendocino Zinfandel, Napa Chardonnay and a smattering of miscellaneous wines.

Day two was all about Italy. Midway through the morning flights we went through several flights of Tuscan reds, Chianti, Chianti Classico, Toscana IGT, Maremma, Vino Nobile and the unmentionable wine I have given up for Lent.

But it was plain vanilla Chianti that really woke me up. In all likelihood these were inexpensive wines, many hovering around the $10 mark. Our group, all of them fully vetted for Italian wine, tasted them blind. What we tasted quite literally reset my ideas about Chianti and more importantly Chianti Classico.

And while these wines we evaluated in no way represent the total spectrum of possibilities for Sangiovese in Tuscany, there were more than enough wines tasted to begin to think that there might be something up in this little throwaway wine we have come to regard as Chianti.

The last dress in the closet

I’ve been living in this house of mine for longer than I have ever lived in any one place. We moved here when the family got a little bigger, when my gal Liz and I decided to move in together and get married. We lived together there for about 3 ½ years before the disease she had, M.S., took her last breath. Most of her earthly belongings, her furniture, her writings, her computer, her car, her clothes, eventually went elsewhere. Her ashes were gently laid in a spot in Assisi; I mourned her loss.

Over the years, the darkness in the tunnel became less or I just became adjusted to living in the tunnel. I kept my home dark, a man cave. Over the years I moved furniture around, changed the carpet, painted here, added there. It wasn’t my dream home, but it is home. For now. And for the last 15 ½ years.

A few months ago, I was consolidating things in a closet and saw her wedding dress. I never had the heart to part with it; who could want it? Like her diamond ring and her pearl ear rings – they were hers.

But the dress, enshrouded in a shiny red garment bag, there it was peeking out from a corner, telling me, “It’s time.”

Why Galloni Matters

This week, when Antonio Galloni announced the launch of his independent site, www.antoniogalloni.com, it was a surprise. Many folks thought he was the heir apparent to Robert Parker. Well, he might just be. But now he's the driver, not a passenger.

I have long admired Antonio’s calm presence. He doesn’t get washed over by waves of attention or scrutiny. He plies his trade, goes about his business, does the work. And while it may appear to be a glamorous career, anyone who travels extensively knows there is more to it than dining and drinking.

I wish him well. He did it with class. He didn’t come out with a TMZ video declaring all that he touches gets 95 points. He is the introvert’s critic. A thinking man, not just hedonistically driven by fame and fortune.

The Italian Beachcomber

Happy St.Thomas, St.Croix, St.John and St. Valentine's Day

Work took me this week to the U.S. Virgin Islands, St. Thomas, St. Croix and St. John. My assignment was to evaluate the condition of the wines in the warehouses for the family I work for. They recently invested in a company down there.

The first day we flew from our base on St. Thomas to St. Croix. Balmy weather in February, around 80 degrees F. The warehouses were temperature controlled.

What Brunello Can Learn From Prosecco: A Tale of Two Consortiums

2013 is starting out to be one of those years in which tumult is the equilibrium. I have participated in the melee in what some people have noted to be a somewhat unfiltered and unchained assault upon Italian wine institutions. Those would be the regional consortiums, the political and marketing bodies of groups of producers formed to advance their goals and success.

In my case I have targeted the consortiums of Brunello and Prosecco in separate posts. They both know how I feel about what is wrong. But things evolve, so let me tell you what I think about their different responses to my lobbing a couple of eggs at them. Let’s start with the one that made an omelet.

How Lambrusco Started in America - Tom Abruzzini's North Beach Stories

From the "alta cacca chronicles"



You find the oddest things on You Tube. Noodling around for my next post I came across this video of Tom Abruzzini talking from North Beach in San Francisco. I first met Tom on the needle-ridden steps of a crumbling four-star hotel in Genoa in 1989. I spent a week with him and learned all manner of things historical about Italian wine. “On the first day”, as the saying goes, Tom was there. If you don’t believe me, take a load off and bear through his story on how Lambrusco won America’s heart. Videographer and "alta cacca historian" Cush Dehkordy has produced a number of clips of Tom (who loves to talk and tell stories about the early days of the wine business.) Something we don’t have a lot of in this here old wine business, the oral tradition, captured.

You may not think every thing Tom says rings with your version of things (Tom is passionate and polarizing at the same time), but it is a record. I'd love to hear him talk about Lou Iacucci on video some time. That'd be entertaining!

Enjoy...

More videos here if you are interested:

Tom Abruzzini Wine Tales Part One
Tom Abruzzini Wine Tales Part Two
Tom Abruzzini Wine Tales Part Three
Tom Abruzzini Wine Tales Part Four

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

wine blog +  Italian wine blog + Italy W

Everything I know about wine I learned from Catholic school - Part II

It seems that some friends in the wine business who read the first post, “Everything I know about wine I learned from Catholic school” had ideas about their experience in Catholic school. Over a bottle of unoaked Verdicchio followed by swigs of Chartreuse, we brainstormed and came up with a second part.

Freshly starched habits – When Sister Bernadette or Sister Claire came into the room, perhaps it was the start of spring. The days were getting longer, the air was still cool, but by mid-day the temperature would rise. When one of the sisters would walk into the room with a newly starched habit, one could feel the difference. Fresh, clean, crisp, slightly citric, an edge to it, with a faint perfume of lilacs and lavender. Not unlike the white wines from Italy. Take a fresh Verdicchio (unoaked) fermented in concrete and driven all the way out to dry-ville. No butter, no apples, no milk, no heaving breathing. These were no Portuguese nuns; these were by the book, old-school proper nuns.

Water from the Same Well

I’m sitting in a full capacity plane, with the passenger in front of me as fully reclined as he can be. I have turned the air vent on full blast and pointed it at his balding grey head. Behind me the passenger is a regular Ricky Riccardo, bongo-bongoing his tray table to some long forgotten beat of youth. I am a magnet for bad behavior on an airplane. But the most offensive gesture is coming from the seat to my left. The woman next to me has ordered a glass of red wine. She gazes at the label as she pours every last drop, every molecule of it, into her high density plastic tumbler. The red wine is death-star purple in color. The putrid stench emanating from it reminds me of a cheap balsamic vinegar which has been laced with ascorbic acid and Welch’s grape consecrate. It makes me want to puke. She caresses the bottle, reads every word on the label, decodes the UPC number. And then goes back to her romance novel.

Has Italian Wine Been Hijacked By Angry White Men?

As I dig deeper into the psyche and soul of what makes Italian wine tick, I keep running into this wall. The more the wines of Italy evolve, the more it seems there are people who want to control the progress. Hey, there’s a lot at stake. First there is the money. And then there is the pride. But power, that’s the theme I keep bucking up against. It’s all really an illusion, because those who fight to keep the power have already lost the control. But still there are those players who look into their magic mirrors and see no blemish, no gray, no error. Our father who art invincible. And these are the players who are preventing Italian wine from becoming greater than it is.

Free the Sheep!

For the past several years I have taken a vacation in Canada. During these times I have found the laws up there pertaining to wine and alcohol distribution and sales to reflect a neo-prohibitionist angle. Taxation, different laws in different provinces, and a general non-uniform approach to the process of selling, distributing and enforcing the laws around wine, beer and spirits. It made me think the laws in the lower 48 states weren’t as bad as some of my friends like to make it out to be. But I discovered an even more archaic practice in the area of distribution and sales. There was this product I wanted to buy real badly.

The 1st Best Italian Wine Tasting of the Year

January is traditionally a time I go to New York. The holidays are over, the year has been put to bed and then it is time to meet with suppliers and see where we have been and where we are going. My first trip this year started with something I have wanted to do for years – taste the Italian wine portfolio of Neal Rosenthal with the man himself.

One of my colleagues deals directly with Neal and so we had a half day in New York. The plan was for Neal to meet us at the airport and head straight to his warehouse.

I got in first to La Guardia where Neal was waiting by the curb with his venerable old Volvo. He flashed his famous smile; we spoke a few words of Italian and headed to work.

Giving up Brunello for Lent

Just when you thought Montalcino was settled down, they go and show everyone that this is the dysfunctional wine center of the earth. From the scandals of the early 21st century up to the singular assault on the stocks of the Soldera winery, it seems that things are just not right in that town.

I’m not really surprised. Montalcino isn’t different from many little towns in Italy. There is a lot of fear of change and a lot of entropy, make it hubris, which keeps them and the wine they make from really making it to the top. Let’s face it, Brunello can be great, but not with a small-minded approach. I’m not talking a slick Madison Avenue approach to marketing, but this small town, old fashioned mentality that refuses to look further than their own nose, well, let me be clear: it makes it easier for me to say the first thing I am giving up for Lent this year will be Brunello.

Bringing Home a Young One

Se campu e non peru non vojgghiu u vidu jcchiu' festa du celu.

© 1967, Avco Embassy Pictures Corp

We all want it, don’t we? It seems that way, from all the pounding we get from television, movies, music, and society. That rush from the hunt, finding it, and taking it home to explore the mysteries of yet another gem. We’re an “I want what I want when I want it” world now. And we want it fresh and young and pretty.

Doesn’t matter if you are man or woman, it’s in our nature, trying to beat Heaven at its own game, making it count while we’re here. All those old ones, left to rot and smolder in their cellars, freezing, dark, no music, no joy, those days are over. Out with the old and in with the new. It’s January after all.

Something about the way Matt Kramer said it in his Drinking Out Loud column on the Wine Spectator, “Is It Worth It To Age Wines Anymore?” resonated. I go into my little walk-in closet and look at all the things I thought would be important to drink in 10-20-30 years and I often find myself walking out and going to another rack of newer wines; fresher, lighter, unencumbered by the dust of time. Oops.

Breaking the Code of Silence on Italian Wine

From the “Om mani padme om-erta” dept.

The single most asked question I get, on a regular basis, is still “How do I figure out Italian wines?” I have to deal with it in work, on this blog, in educational situations, in sales, and in almost any situation I get into when the subject of Italian wines is brought up among normal people. I say normal, because in the wine geek world, those folks are more interested in how many DOCG’s there are or the difference between Cannubi and Bussia. But that’s rarified air for folks who are just trying to unlock the key to understanding Italian wine for their purposes, those being immediate drinking pleasure. So this isn’t an academic exercise, although many folks in that arena struggle with this as well. Maybe that’s why the book, Italian Wine for Dummies, is the one many of us recommend to folks who are trying to simply sort it out.

But there has to be an even simpler answer. Not everyone is going to read a book. Too bad we can’t go the route that Mimmo Siclari chose, selling cassettes of Calabrian crime songs from the rear of his car. And as risky as that was, and it was, much more of a risk than I am attempting, the stakes are even higher with regards to cracking the code on Italian wine.

Being the Best "Me" You Will Ever Be – Again and Again and Again

There exists in all of us, a certain wiring that whatever stage we are at, we seem to think the decisions we make are the best we have ever and quite possibly will ever make. It happens at 4, at 14, at 34, at 54 and appears to be a mechanism that affects our decisions, our choices, our attitudes and the things we think, make, love, hate and aspire to. We seem to think we always the best me we will ever be. A recent article in the NY Times, Why You Won’t Be the Person You Expect to Be, examines past being and memory, and was the catalyst for this post.

In Italy, in the world of wine, there have been some decisions made that knowing now the why, makes for interesting conjecture.

Why did Soave become so popular in America? Why did the wine marketers seek to produce a lighter, smoother, softer, fruitier wine than what had been and is now being made again? Why was that wine so much more popular then, than the “real thing” is now? Who in Italy aspired to make a wine (and lots of money to go with it) that would provide for an almost irreversible outcome? Soave from the 1970’s is like the tattoo a young person got one drunken Saturday night and it just won’t go away.