“Climb Your Mountain!”

While scores of Italians and other Europeans flock to the beaches of Italy, Spain and Greece, suntanning their bums off, America is in the full throes of another push. Where are we going? What does it matter? There’s a mountain over there, and we must climb it!

I’m simplifying matters a bit, but if you are living in America right now, there is an energy, a fire that has been lit, and we’re not talking about an arsonist in the Sierra Nevada, or Burning Man, which is imminent. No, this is a larger upheaval. And while it might be a communally driven one, I’ve also been thinking about our individual climbs.

This was precipitated by the death of a long-time friend who battled DLB for the past five years. My friend was a world traveler, an art lover, a wine and food enthusiast and a love-magnet for beautiful, accomplished and fiercely independent women. Oh, and he loved to climb mountains.

“They’ve stolen our dreadlocks!” ~ Have American chefs culturally appropriated la cucina Italiana?

As an Italian food chronicler, by virtue of working through the past few decades and witnessing many iterations of Italian-divined restaurants, living where I live in 2024 can be a bit discombobulating.

While I understand the spirit of Italian cooking draws upon improvisation, there is also a good argument for the great classic dishes that are rarely seen in these parts in their pure form. Ingredients matter. The season matters. The place where one lives matters. But sometimes lines are crossed, and from where I observe, we’ve crossed over into the land of contravention. They’ve stolen our dreadlocks. Italian food has been culturally appropriated. And it’s an unsightly mess.

Big (and little) Alc’s Fall From Favor

The large alcohol companies are sounding their alarms. People aren’t drinking as much as they used to. Their business is down. Their projections are also down for FY25, just to let their shareholders know not to expect double digit returns any time soon.

Meanwhile the younger generations aren’t drinking as much as the older ones did when they were young. Adding to that, it is estimated that about 5,000-6,000 baby boomers die a day. It is estimated also that there are now 11 million less Baby Boomers than there were in 2020, and about 21 million less than in 2016.  So, yeah, the liquor and wine businesses are in the crapper.

But it’s not like the mega corporations didn’t have something to do with it. Let’s take a look.

What Is Your Cause?

It seems like everywhere you turn these days, someone is prosecuting their case for something that they deem purpose driven. We’re shouted out, poked, cajoled, interrupted, stopped mid-speech or worse, mid-thought, by any number of distractions in the name of cause. So many people are strip mining our attention for their brand, their cause or their spiel. So, what’s your raison d'etre under the sun?

A Journey Through the Early White Wines of Abruzzo ~ Or, Self-Investing in Your Path to Mastery

Recently I had a long conversation with a young wine professional. Currently they’re sommeliering in a very exclusive hotel which has a restaurant with a quasi – Italian flavor. This person believes in taking deep dives into wine countries at their own expense, in order to further their knowledge and education and love for wine, which is part of their livelihood. Imagine that – spending your own money to learn more about wine?  

Look, I’ve known wine buyers and sommeliers who really didn’t have much interest in Italian wines over the years. I remember telling one that they should try going – they might have their minds changed. One, I knew, dipped their toes into Italy with a free junket to Prosecco-land. It was a start. But there were always more interesting places for them to go to – France, South Africa, Argentina – more exotic, and of course, no charge. It was as if Italy were this indecipherable, non-linear, complicated jumble of regions and wines and opinions – duh. That was often enough to put off the most left-brained of wine-experts-in-training. But for people like the young somm above and myself, it is a ticket to an endless parade of characters – rich stories – unpredictable wines at times – but always somewhere a great meal and a beautiful cache of scenery.

Able Was I Ere I Saw Elba Rosso

Not long ago, an erstwhile colleague recounted a story they had while making an Italian wine presentation. The account was a tony Italian-styled eatery that had recently changed wine buyers, so a meet-up was de rigeur. The  person who oversaw the wine lists was Gen-Z’ish in age and predilection.

My confrere was discussing Tuscan wines, with the new buyer. The subject of international varieties came up. You know, things like Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and grapes like that, which also grow in Italy. This was an all-Italian wine list, and whether we like it or not, diners come in looking, at times, for wines they know and recognize. Like Cabernet Sauvignon. The young overseer interrupted him and said, “Italy doesn’t make good Cabernet or Merlot. The place for that is Napa Valley.” Ok, so no Masseto? No Sassicaia? (said restaurant is in a high net-worth neighborhood) My friend then asked them about Super Tuscans. “Not my thing.” Dismissed again. So, as the meeting came to an end, and my friend was getting up to leave, the wine buyer asked him, “But do you have any orange wines?”

Taking a ride on the EU’s dime – a field guide to wine “press junkets” in the 2020’s

Although we’ve been told we’re in a post-Covid world now, we still might be suffering from the hangover that almost three years of isolation gave the collective world. However, you wouldn’t know it from looking at your socials – there, the party has just got started. Regional wine groups and consortiums are throwing around EU money like candy at a 4^th of July parade And the kids are scrambling for all the free sweet treats they can stuff in their gullets.

I’m not a stranger to wine junkets, having partaken in several over the years. I remember a long-gone colleague who always seemed to be jetting off to one wine destination after another. Their American Airlines frequent flier miles were an object of amazement. The thing is, they couldn’t ever make a deadline, as they were never on the ground. So who did that benefit?

That’s the crux of this piece – who benefits from it? I’m going to try and work through the varying point of view. I’m hopeful, but wary.

Learning to Trust Italian White Wines

While in my local Italian store the other day, a sales rep was doing a tasting of Italian wines. He had a bevy of whites and one red. It was over 100℉ outside. People were gravitating to the red wine. Maybe it had something to do with the meat counter beyond, so nearby the tasting station?

During the demo, a young, exuberant alpha-male comes up to the table. “Let me try one of your white wines,” he barked. He took a swig, “Not bad. I’ve stayed away from Italian white wines because I don’t trust them. They’re too nothing, don’t have a lot of body. They’re ‘meh’ wines.”

That was a trip down memory lane. He should’ve been here in 1974. But there was a kernel of truth to what he said about not trusting Italian white wines, even in 2024.

The Guy Buys the Parrot

 

There’s this old joke going around. I heard Colin Quinn tell it recently. It goes like this:

This guy goes into a pet shop looking to buy a parrot. The person at the counter says, “You don't want to buy this parrot. He's got a filthy mouth.” But the guy goes “I can handle it.” The parrot comes home with him. The parrot says, “Hey, Mister, Mister.” He goes, “What?” The parrot goes “Go f*ck yourself.” The guy goes, “Don't talk to me like that.” He smacks the cage. He beats up the parrot and he goes,“Don't ever...I'm not the guy to play with like that.” Next day, he comes home. The parrot goes, “Hey, Mister, Mister.” He goes, “What?” The parrot says, “Go f*ck yourself.”  The guy goes nuts. “You piece of…” He smashes the cage. He almost strangles the parrot. He goes, “Next time you tell me to go f*ck myself, I'm going to kill you. I promise you; I'm going to kill you.” Next day, he shows up after work. The parrot goes, “Hey, Mister, Mister.” The guy goes, “What?” The parrot says, “You know what!”

Many of us are like that when we buy wine retail or order it in a restaurant these days. It’s not that we don’t know what we’re getting into, but we go ahead anyway and then when it doesn’t go the way we wanted it to, we find we have landed in chaos. All because we bought the damn parrot.

Affogato and Averna with a Sicilian Surrealist

Our time at the dinner table was over. Giorgio motioned to me and his wife that he was moving to the drawing room. His wife said she would prepare the affogato. Meanwhile Giorgio foraged in his liquor cabinet for a bottle of amaro. “Seeing as we are all Siculi, shall we have some Averna with our dessert?” he suggested. As long as it wasn’t Cynar, I was fine with it. I’d been plied with the artichoke amaro in Palermo with every family visit. Averna was a relief.

“Isa was visiting a friend near Piazza Navona and brought back some gelato from Tre Scalini.” Isa had a sweet tooth, I gathered. Giorgio too. Fine with me. I was 20, skinny and ready for whatever came my way. I could handle amaro and gelato.

Fettuccine and Forastera with a Sicilian Surrealist

Una favola continuava

It was 7:00 PM and Giorgio’s residence was about 15 minutes away from the pensione I was staying in. But I wasn’t that familiar with Rome, and we didn’t have GPS in 1971. So, I gathered my myself, a little gift I had gotten In Sicily for his wife, and my camera, and headed out. I thought I should probably take a bottle of wine, and earlier in the day I had gone into a shop which sold wine, beer and liquor and looked for something appropriate. I knew little to nothing about wine, despite the fact that my dorm mates  at university had last names like Mondavi, Sebastiani, Heitz, Pellegrini and Filice. My uncle back in California was a wine merchant and he told me a little about Italian wines.

The store had what I would now call a selection of tourist recognizable wines from places like Umbria (Orvieto),  Lazio (Est! Est!! Est!!!) and Campania (Lacryma Christi del Vesuvio). The white wines all looked more amber-like, so I tried to find one that wasn’t as dark. On a display I found a white wine, simply called Ischia Bianco, from the eponymous island that was a popular day trip for vacationers.

Caffè and Cannoli with a Sicilian Surrealist

una favola...

My first trip to Italy was in 1971. I was a student on summer break and spent days in Rome, wandering the streets at all hours with my camera. One night I happened to be near the Spanish steps when it was very late. In fact, it was almost dawn. And down the street from the steps on the Via Condotti, the familiar noises of a coffee machine, the grinding, the steaming and the drip, drip, dripping, sounded. With the aroma of fresh coffee, I was drawn like an insect to light.  It was there where I first encountered the Sicilian Surrealist.

The Duty of Hospitality (is not just expected of the Host)

From the archives: Seeing as summertime is approaching and holiday visits to Italy will increase, along with requests to visit wineries, just a little revisit to this subject during our Memorial Day holiday

My dad, Lou, in the 1950's - the consummate salesman

I received an email from Italy, via a concerned and upset supplier, whom I regard as a friend.

“The person you arranged to visit our property in Tuscany never showed up. They never even called! Do you know what happened? We were waiting. We are still waiting. This happens too many times! Please make sure the people you set up visits for really want to come to visit us!”

I cannot tell you how many times this has happened. And with the tourist season ramping up, I fear more incidents like this. In this case I made three calls, filled out visit forms, three properties I made arrangements for and the client was a no-show at all three. To quote my dad above, "WHAT'S THE DEAL?"

Engendering Madness - What Price for an Authentic Italian Meal?

Seafood with Cheese - Authentic or the Ultimate Culinary Transgression?

 Over the past few days, I’ve been chatting with a foodie friend who spares no expense when it comes to food and wine. This is a person who will fly to Japan to eat raw fish. He was asking me for my take on some Italian places here in Dallas. One of his comments, in response was, “I’d rather fly to New York and go to Rezdora,” where the chef is a (local) friend of ours.

It got me to thinking about the costs of getting on a plane and going to Italy to eat authentic Italian.

What? Of all the profligate, indulgent, extravagant, privileged, entitled, senseless babble!

Well, as Batman said, “The world only makes sense when you force it to.”

So, let’s run some numbers.

Why “Italian” restaurants in America still don’t get Italian wine - Pt. II

Forging ahead with my quixotic crusade, let’s turn to red wines. I’ll try and be a little more circumspect in my presentation.

While Italy now has a plethora of great wines, I’d like to start with the less patrician and more serviceable ones. I say this because we still have legions of folks who don’t understand the intricacies of Italian wine. They are looking for easy road marks and equivalents. Not always so easy, but doable.