The Pendulum

"...one step remained. One step! One little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great staircase of human life how vast a sum of human happiness or misery depends! I thought of myself, then of Pompey, and then of the mysterious and inexplicable destiny which surrounded us... I thought of my many false steps which have been taken and may be taken again." – Poe

Got time for a little navel gazing? 'Cause that’s where I'm going with this one.

25 years of carrying the torch for the Italian team. I feel like someone just pushed me in the ditch.

There are all kinds of wines for different tastes. I understand that. But I cannot tell how many times I have heard this line lately, and not just from Italians: “We have embraced tradition with innovation.” Or this one: “We are a traditional winery looking forward into the 21st century.” And this one: “We are an old style winery utilizing technology to improve what we have learned from the past.” None of these statements makes any sense.


Add to that the looming issue with Italian wines: Who can you trust?

When was the last time I had a Greco or a Fiano that really tasted like one? How many Verona IGT reds lately have I had that tasted more like a wine from the Maremma or Rutherford, than Valpolicella? When was the last time I had a Chianti that reflected the intentions of the land over the man? When did Mother Nature become la goomada? When did nurture become suffocate?

Did those starry-eyed post war kids with hopes and dreams become comfortable as they passed the keys to their Gucci-loafing children?

Well maybe not everyone, but the pendulum has swung out there. Way out. It cannot remain in an extreme position. It cannot be sustained. There is the issue of gravity. And balance.

This whirlwind in Tuscany is finally reaching the shores of America. Already in New York and out West there is rumbling. Pushback. Wayback. The midsection of the US has been rabbit punched for eight grueling years and we need a moment. To pay our bills, to recalibrate. To gather some hope for ourselves.

April was the first month I have witnessed where I’ve seen downward trends in Italian wine sales. Things are slowing down. It’s not a sky-is-falling spiral, but it’s a gut check for anyone who is looking at the numbers.

Let’s talk about wine. I was with a young one who lived in Southern Italy for four years and just returned home to Texas. We were tasting wine and she remarked about a winery in Campania, “I don’t remember their white wine tasting so buttery and smooth and international.” I hadn’t thought about it, I was too busy plowing on through the year, when out of the mouth of babes came a truth. She was right. Last week, in New York, I was having dinner with an old friend and we were talking about the very same thing. “Yeah, I talked to one of the owners and asked him how it was going. Do you know what his answer was? Our wines are very popular. Not, our wines are a reflection of our land. But, our wines are appealing.” Oh really?

I have tasted Montepulcianos from Abruzzo recently. Seems like a lot of people want to bring their wines to market. I have a long experience with Montepulciano and remember those brawny, sweaty, nutty, reds that when you tasted it knew it was from the hills above you. Now, many of them taste like they came off an assembly line.

I was in Italy last month, tasting Barolo and Barbaresco. For what seem like hundreds of years now I have tasted Nebbiolo, what a rollercoaster ride! Sometimes the wines are a reflection of where they come from, in that unique way a wine is when it only has one area where it is comfortable growing. And then sometimes it seems like we are dealing with a perfume manufacturing mentality; crank out another flavor, give us something sexy for the camera, can you show us some skin? More toast. More velvet, more color, more money, more stuff. Less substance.

Who can you turn to? What can you trust in?

Salespeople rattle about this wine and that wine like it is the latest laundry detergent or smart phone. What happened to the old gang who loved the camaraderie and the product? Sure there might be an incentive here or there, but what about the thrill of the game, not the urgent flavor of the moment? What about the soil? The vine? The grape?

These wines are now like trophies, everything is a treasure, without the hunt. We want a pretty wife; we get the doctor to make her prettier. We want to be cool, we get a fast car. We want to sell, we quote a score.

What about all those Italians in our veins and our DNA, looking out from generations past, what would they think of this moment?

I think we are at a crossroads and it is a crucial time for the wines of Italy and her relationship to the American market. Where's a good place to start? How about less marketing pesticide – more plowing in the trenches of the heart.

There have been missteps. I hope for steps out of the darkness towards a future that swings back to authenticity and integrity.

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

Vintage photos by Vittorio

Etc! Etc!! Etc!!!

With the warm weather heading this way, a few words about white wines from Italy. Where I live, the next five months will be warm and warmer. Red wine can just be too heavy, as a daily regimen. Vegetables are coming to the table; lighter foods are appearing as well. I am turning to white wines.

A few lately have come across the table.


Marco de Bartoli Grappoli del Grillo

This wine appeared on the table right before a dish of pesce crudo with grapefruit and wild greens. This Sicilian Grillo, from one of the great Marsala producers, is a bouquet of freshness. I was parched when this wine was poured into my glass, and I was blessed with a benediction of flavors, hinting at “someday when I grow up I’m gonna be a Marsala.” Not a chance, this wine has famous grandparents, but it’s a thong and flip flop sandal set wine.


Bruno Giacosa Arneis
“I’m going to order this wine because I don’t get Arneis.” was what my colleague at lunch confessed. What he meant, he elaborated, was that there is no defining style for this variety. I agree. I've had the Ceretto and the Pio Cesare recently in Piedmont and they were polar opposites. The Giacosa entry matched up well with fare served recently at the Landmarc in Tribeca. We had it with a fois gras terrine, followed by a grilled half chicken with mashed chickpeas and arugula. The wine is a sexy-delicate quaff, but paired with food it slipped into something a little more comfortable. Not just a one-night-stand kind of wine, more of a long-weekend fling. Very nice with the food, and on a wine list priced slightly above retail to encourage experimentation.


Falesco Est! Est!! Est!!!
Coming off a recent death march of a road trip, I headed straight from the airport to a reception. The last thing I wanted to do was drink wine. Water was what I needed and lots of it. But there was this little tray of white wine being passed around and I couldn’t be the speaker at a wine event only drinking water. I was pleasantly surprised when this wine splashed onto my palate. I wasn’t expecting much substance, what I got was a lingering memory of a delicate, understated wine with a striking aroma of sweet lilies. The flavor was a brisk jump into a fresh stream of nectarines and unripe green apples, sweet and tart not sinking to the bottom, floating down the course in an inner tube of contentment.


All Hail Texas Grapegrowers
If you want something else, a shameless plug for the trials and tribulations of extreme winemaking in Texas. Kim Pierce has written a fascinating article about a place that makes me want to go and see what they're are doing up in the High Plains, 4,000 feet above sea level. Check it out.

And, as they say in the Bronx, “Chin-tann” y'all. I'm heading to the Met.

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

An Italian's Love For New York

“Oshpett, oshpett,” the beer vendor barked on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Yankee Stadium. He was clearing the way for fans to get to their seats when I heard the remnants of a southern Italian dialect, several generations removed. For the folks he was selling beer to, he’d often end his transaction with a parting “Chin-tann.”

Layered under decades of time and waves of subsequent immigrations, the Italian voice is stretched but not silenced. One needs only to scratch the surface only slightly to see the Italian presence in New York.

“Dig down into New York and you’ll reach Rome,” I once heard on a cold winter night several decades ago. I’m not sure how that applies in today’s world, but looking around the city today, it seems Italians are exploring the new New York, and loving every minute of it.

Once a section at the ballpark would be filled with suited up gentlemen, hats and all, with their mandatory cigar, looking after the legacy of Lazzeri, Rizutto and DiMaggio. These days the field has altered and they sit in their seats along fellow fans from Japan, from all over the world, and follow the careers of Giambi, Jeter and Matsui. E la nave va.

Hungry? Get yourself a Nathan’s, a kosher dog or a hot Italian sausage. You can even find a cannolo in the stadium if you dig deep enough.

Traveling in the subways and walking along the streets upside one can hear the ring of Italian being spoken. From the southern dialects now woven into a new patois’ to the fresh staccato sounds of tourists from Friuli or the Veneto. The city is crawling with all kinds of Italians looking for a slice of New York to love.

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

Wine Bahs

New York
“The last time I saw a selection of wines this idiosyncratic was on a closeout list from a distributor,” somebody was heard to say, when talking about one of the many wine bars that have sprung up across the country.

Whether it is to find an outlet for those seldom seen wines, that do often languish in the corners of many a wholesaler’s warehouse, or if it is the result of a methodical search for a pure expression of wine, today’s wine lover need only to stumble into a wine bar. Or enoteca, as we say, on the wine trail.

Minutes before I was to do just that, I was in a clothing store that caters to young urbanites. On display were as many different T-shirt selections as I would soon be faced with when looking at the wine list. One shirt caught my attention. It read, “Who the f*** is Mick Jagger?”

An hour later, over a glass of Gruner, Mick would pass by our window, sans entourage.

30 minutes earlier I slipped into the wine bar, before my friends. Ordering up a glass of an Italian white, an Asprinio, it recalled a wine I had made a hundred years ago in California. Tangy fruit up front, a hint of volatility, not quite ready for oil and salad, but veering off in that direction. That’s OK with me in small doses. Italian whites, especially made in a rustic style, can be charming when that element is doled out judiciously. Civet in a perfume can be attractive, ask anyone who loves Chanel No.5.

Speaking of the rear end of a tomcat, I am sitting here struggling with terroir. My friend and I had an appointment with the owner of a wine bar, who walked in, and by, chatted up his staff, looked not in any direction at his clientele (one of which, wasn’t he supposed to rendevous with?), and headed back out the door.

Maybe it’s all those years I worked at being invisible when I photographed on the streets. Perhaps he is forgetful, though we met and spent time together, recently. I’m quite sure the success of his career has nothing to gain from knowing me.

All these thoughts, not just to excoriate the young lion for his comportment. More to my quest is this elusive search for recognizability in that thing we call terroir.

I use a different word which comforts me and because I understand it better than terroir. Territoriality. Probably a made up word, but one which offers focus to a blurry scatter of opinions about the spirit of a place, which means something to us for a reason. Maybe it is because grapes grow there and unforgettable wine results. Or hands making memorable music. Perhaps it is because a certain potato flourishes there, exclusively, and from those potatoes a gnocchi (that I’ll never ever forget) of which I had three bowls, at lunch, in the Marche. Back there, in the dungeon of my memories.

As the forgetful proprietor hurried off to his more important task, my friend arrived with a colleague. We sat down to drink that bottle of Gruner, Mick hurrying off in the same direction as Mr. Oblivious. Everyone to their own T-shirt. Wine boss, rock hoss, jazz joss. Not yet, Thelonious, that’s coming, uptime, uptown. Later.

While the revolutionary T-shirts are brought to the table with a sampler of appetizers, we ordered another bottle, this time a red. I proceeded to blunder, thinking the name was printed on the list with a redundancy. My younger, more mentally agile colleague gracefully corrected me. Just so everyone knows, Italian wines, even to those who make a life study of them, have many, many names. This one, known as Lacrima di Morro d’Alba, just to make things interesting, is also not from Alba. Or anywhere near Piedmont. Look it up. Oh, and the winemakers sometimes use the Tuscan governo process, but it’s not from Tuscany. Got it?

About this time one of the observant ones at our table casually mentioned that Tom Waits just shuffled by, in the direction of William Burroughs old place. One of them is late. This is one helluva people-watching wine bar.

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

In the Italian Way

After five long days in Verona, and our after work gatherings in the local restaurants, the wine trails after Vinitaly 2008 led us to an array of wonderful restaurants. I have listed them below, with the exception of the little osteria in the hills above Trento. That one is my little secret.

In the last two weeks since returning from Italy I have posted about these restaurants. But I am sure someone will ask me someday for a nice list of places to eat and sleep in Northern Italy and this post will be my answer.

In the time I have been back from Italy, it has been a wild ride. All across Texas in four days, all the major markets, and back to Dallas for a Cotarella event, that was super VIP and muy importante. Traveling across the state and holding seminars and talking, all undertaken while sick, has taken its toll on this old dinosaur. For the past week I have been laying low, working from home when not out in the market with clients, and have been trying to piece myself back together, after taking myself to the edge.

But I am returning to health and sanity, and just in time for a little R&R to one of my favorite islands.

Before I sign off, a few pictures of folks in my world, at the table, enjoying food and wine, as it is meant to be in the Italian way.

One of the Great Gentlemen of Italian Wine

Dream Big

Laughter is the best digestivo

Entertained by Chef Ropeton's insults

Always take your consigliere with you to Italy

It's Passover and you can't find a Menorah, how about a sorbetto-labra?

The Restaurants

Ristorante Chiesa
Di Alessandro Chiesa
38100 Trento
Parco S. Marco
04610238766
http://www.ristorantechiesa.it/




Ristorante Gualtiero Marchesi
L’Albereta Locanda in Franciacorta
Via Vittorio emanuele, 23
25030, Erbusco – Brescia
+39 0307760562
http://www.marchesi.it/


Enoclub Ristorante
Piazza Savona, 4
Alba
+ 0173 33994


Piazza Duomo Ristorante
Piazza Risorgimento 4
12051 Alba, Cuneo
+39.0173.366167
http://www.piazzaduomoalba.it/




Il Vigneto
Restaurant and Country House
Localita Ravinali 19/20
12060, Roddi
+39 0173 615630
http://www.ilvignetodiroddi.com/

Take a bow, Adelmo

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

The Right Place @ The Right Time

How does one follow up a lunch like the last one? With an appointment to visit an important cellar in the historical center of Alba. Our visit with Ceretto came to an end and we pressed one last espresso into the remaining space we had. Then a few thanks you's and buon lavoro's and a brief walk back to the parked car, to ply the meter with more time. I gave a call to Cesare Benvenuto over at Pio Cesare and begged for directions. “No problem, walk 100 or so meters down the street from where you are, turn left and it is on the right. Ring the bell and I’ll meet you at the gate.” Huh? No madcap driving through the cobbled streets of Alba to a countryside vineyard? No mud? No stoplights? No getting lost? On time, this time? Was I finally getting the hang of the Langhe?

Young Cesare greeted us warmly at the portal of the Pio Cesare winery. This was a winery that the town of Alba grew up around. How many times had I walked around the town and never knew the winery that slaked around underneath the ancient bricks. All very interesting to realize an historical operation was so cleverly concealed. As if the act of making wine was the most important aspect. Note to Napa: Hide a winery in the middle of St. Helena and make it a seminal one. No tee shirts, no restaurant, no Godfather’s desk. Hmm…

Once inside, we were led past two statues of Italian greyhounds while a little yippy-type dog protected Nona’s garden. Yes there is a matriarch, and her presence gracefully looms over the compound. Cesare remarks that it is only recently that he has moved into his own living space outside the walls. He is starting a family and needs a backyard and room to grow his brood.

Time out: During this recent trip everyone we have met and spent time with has been in their early 30’s. Where are their parents, my contemporaries? Not that I cannot communicate with the younger ones, in fact I often prefer it. But where are they? Have they retired? Are they all on vacation? Do they not feel the urge to stay in the game? Or is that so very American of me, to persevere like an eno-centric Satchel Paige while my colleagues have long gone to the showers? I’m not that old, am I?

In the tasting room, little details of a long life of the winery surface. This is a quaint stop; I would have never thought the Pio Cesare winery to embrace such tradition and to enshrine it along the walls and in the cellars. It’s like finding an old battleship in the depths and then exploring the galleys looking for things left behind.

A tour of the winery. When one goes to places like Rome and sees the excavations of the floor of the ancient city 20-30 feet below the modern city, does anyone else wonder how in that time it was buried below centuries of dust? So it was at this winery, though only a few feet separated the original winery from modern times. Still, two feet is a lot. But Alba has been growing up lately.

Then we run into Rome. About eight feet below we encounter a wall the Romans built over 2,000 years ago.

Turn a corner and here we find a vine planted by Cesare’s great-great-grandfather, in the cellar. Modern day building has formed a roof over what was once an open area, but the vine is established and grows up the dark wall towards the light. These are things one doesn’t often see in a winery, anywhere.

We are walking in a working museum.

In the area where the wine is boxed and prepared to ship, Cesare's uncle Augusto runs by, recognizes me slightly, says hello and proceeds to conquer Russia and Singapore with his wine. So I’m not the only silverback working today. Business is good, the world is flat, seize the opportunity, Augusto.

My young colleague and Cesare hit it off; they have similar trajectories in the wine business and are also in the process of assembling their families. By the time this is written, Cesare should be a proud papa.

After hitting the lowest level of the cellar, where the old wines still rest, we headed back up to taste through the range of wines that are in release. I did my due diligence for the work related business; after all we represent the winery in several states. Those notes are not for these pages, though I will say that the 2004 vintage in Piedmont for Barolo and Barbaresco is stunning. I am breathless when tasting these wines. These are classic wines, in general, and I recommend collectors (young ones) to snag some.

“What are you doing for dinner?” Cesare asks. It is our last night in Italy on this trip, and we have had many, too many, wonderful meals. I am beginning my downward spiral to a state of puny, which persists to this time.
“Please let me take you to a little place in the country that my friends run.” Italians are so graceful. “No, it is no problem, this is the life we have chosen, please let’s make your last night better by spending some time together.”


We meet at the bottom of the road from where we are staying in Castiglione Falletto and it is a short ride to the restaurant. Il Vigneto is located in Roddi, between La Morra and Alba.

It is a restaurant and a country home, with 6 guest rooms starting at €75.00 for a double. This is a find. And the restaurant and cellar are outstanding. The menu changes with the seasons, but is extremely reasonable. The wine list is just a sampler of what rests in the cellar. Go here, stay here, eat here, make love here.

So after a huge day and a great finish, we headed down to the cellar for a little Barolo Chinato and a farewell to Alba. Cesare and chef Manola along with his partner Rossano led us down through the kitchen into the cellar, where treasures after treasure of red wines from the Langhe, and beyond, slept in peace. A gravel floor and another private cellar (reserved for special wines and foods) were situated beyond where we settled. A little Chinato, a little grappa, a shot of espresso to make the road down passable and that was our night.

As we headed back to Bricco Rocche and our rooms, Cesare led the way so we wouldn’t get lost. We stopped at a road he indicated would get us up to Castiglione Falletto. We then said goodbye and headed up the road a few feet and stopped, waiting for Cesare’s car to disappear. It seemed he had led us to the wrong road (we had gotten lost a few times so we knew when we weren’t on the right road). Then we proceeded to the correct road and raced to tuck ourselves into the comfortable little beds on top of the hill. We were in the right place at the right time.

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