Contemplating the Next Move

Maybe it is because we are nearing the end of another year. Or because the last five months have been so very busy. Perhaps it is the new look of the blog that has caused me to think about this. Or maybe this is just overindulgence from one who thinks too much about this. I don’t really know.

What I do know is this- the world as we know it, as we all know it, is our own little unique world. And everyone has one. Some of us have bigger orbits; some of us have more mobility. A few of us have means to make their world bigger than others. And many more of us have a world that has been handed to them, in an instant, and with little time to plan. And here we are, all together, but separated by our skulls. And so we aren’t really all together. We just live on the same funny little green planet. More by accident than design.

I have been writing here at On the Wine Trail in Italy for almost five years now. I have met new friends, made new acquaintance, widened the network. It has been a good run.

And no, I am not signing off or taking leave. Or at least, I don’t think so. But I am contemplating the next move.

All in the (Italian Wine) Family

The temperature was barely above freezing when I took a longer than intended run today. When I got back home, there was a message on my voice mail, from my friend Cassandra in Italy. “Alfonso, where are you? I need to talk to someone who I am so close to but not related by blood.” I could tell by the tone of her voice that this would be a long talk. So I poured myself some tea and called her.

Cassandra (not real name) and I met in Italy when we were in our 20’s. Her family is in the wine business (among others) and whenever there is some little piece of information I must know (or verify) Cassandra is usually the one I call. She is a no B.S. person, very passionate and loved by her friends, whom she is fiercely loyal to. In my view, I would punctuate that with a “to a fault.” She and I never were romantic; we both saw that we were much too alike and that it would be best if we didn’t go down that road. Thankfully that short and wise moment of otherwise testosterone-laden youth has served us well. We have remained close friends for many years.

Her family has holdings in the Central part of Italy (where she lives) as well as in the South and the North along with vineyards in Europe and the New World. They have made some great wines and they have made some terrible wines. Cassandra has been involved in wine over the years. Today she is less engaged in the day-to-day business. She has resources and dreams and she intends to realize some of them. But lately she has seemed to be a little pre-occupied with her family, so it didn’t come as a big surprise that she wanted to talk to me about them, especially during a holiday when so much of what we perceive family to be is put under a big microscope to be fully revealed. I had no idea if she was going to drop a bombshell on me.


I called Cassandra; she had just awakened from an afternoon nap, where she had fallen asleep by a warm fire. It was cold in her part of the world and she was curled up with a book and a hearth and had promptly fallen asleep. But she wanted very much to talk.

“I am reviewing my family life- my parents, my sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, nieces, grandparents, children, all of them- and my relation to them now.” Her father was still very much alive. He was always traveling somewhere for the family. Her sister had married a man who was an outsider but who had done very well for himself and had taken a large part of the family business to international scale. “But Cassandra, tell me, you sounded stressed on your voice message, what is going on?”

She took what sounded like a deep breath and proceeded to tell me all.

“I don’t think my family likes me. I don’t know what I have done to them. I have been a loyal daughter, usually doing what I have been told to do. But I have this independent streak; you know it so well, Alfonso. And because of it, it seems I have never done what my family thought I should do, even when I have been successful. My brothers and sisters and I seldom talk, and when we do it seems like we are playing pretend, like we are being polite because we know we must be. But there is no depth to our talks. I feel as though they have all built a moat around their life and they control who gets in. My nephews are growing up and they seem to be so, what is the word I have heard you say in English, they think they have it coming?”

“Entitled?” I ask.

“Yes.” She continued. “They have these fancy BMVoos and Prada and Dolce & Gabbana and they have so much arrogance for anyone who is older or even thinks different. What has happened to Italy and the family?”

I didn’t know if it was a rhetorical question but I knew Cassandra would continue. I just wanted to focus her a little. “Cassandra, what is going on with your son, is he ok?”

“Alfonso, he is the dear light of my life. When my husband died (tragically, some say perhaps not so accidental) he took it so hard. He became very dark and not willing to share his feelings. But he is a grown up person. What can I do? When my father calls him and he doesn't call him back, I must listen to my father tell me that the young people of today have lost all their respect. But my father was never available, emotionally, for him or for me. And then there is the subtle way my father turns the conversation into a criticism of my parenting. And then I am caught between the two of them, grandson and grandfather, who are both so much alike, but will never look into each other’s eyes. And then it is all my fault.”

“And the wine business, Cassandra, what about it?”

“Alfonso, you know what is going on it Italy right now – you read the reports – do you remember what I told you back when the Brunello scandal was just surfacing, that this was just the edge of a very big knife that would be found sticking through the body of the Italian wine industry? And here we are now, with another large corruption looming. Not good.”

“What about your sister and her husband and the business? Are they affected?” I don’t know why I asked her, I guess I was trying to get her to talk through the whole family thing.

“They are like that little quote from Gattopardo that you love to recite, when the Jesuit tells the Prince, ‘Excellency, the efficacy of confession consists not only in telling our sins but in being sorry for them.’ They are so removed from their sins, by their wealth and their moats, that they feel no compunction to even confess. So it is a big mess. My dear sister is from the old school, she doesn’t like to make any waves and why should she? She can ski in the Alps during the winter holidays and tan all summer on the Costa Smeralda with her grandchildren, playing in the water and eating insalata di polipo with Vermentino from her little vineyard. Why should anything change in her way of doing things?”

“No, really what I see now, is that everyone in my family had gone on to live their lives as if the other members of their family should fit an image they have. And if they don’t fit in that frame, they don’t go on the wall in the gallery. They don’t stay part of their family. Young and old, the Italian family in Italy has disintegrated to a wall of Venetian plaster with pretty little pictures of people as we see them, not always as they are. And in my case, I know I do not exist in their reality. And why should I? I am single without a mate; my children are grown up and flung across the world. Our lives rarely intersect, except at a funeral or when the Cardinal summons us to a Mass or a meal. We say to each other ‘I love you,’ before we close the phone, but we don’t act like we really love each other any more.”

This was getting dark. I know the holidays are a rough time for people, I have had my share of challenges lately, but Cassandra was starting to worry me. Here was an accomplished, loving person who thought that her family neither liked her nor loved her anymore. And I really didn’t know what to tell her. I mean, what can one say, make something up from the Rod McKuen play book? None the less, I took a stab at it.

“Look Cassandra, you are better served by the love you give than by the love you receive. And you are a lover of life. I know this is hard for you, you have lost a lot in your short life, but you have your health and you aren’t worried about having enough wood to make a fire to keep you warm at night. You are in a low period right now, and it seems the world might be in a low period with you. But you will not climb out of this pit with a rope thrown to bring you up. You were never this way, and you will not be this way now. You know what you must do, don’t you?” I was trying a little tough love with a huge dose of giddy-up, gal you can do it.

“Amica, I will be in Italy soon. And I must come to your region; it has been a few years since I laid some tulips on the grave of my dear wife, Liz. When I do, please lets spend a day or two together, talking this over. I want to help you as much as I can.”

Maybe that was all she really needed. Not judgment, not to ignore her completely like it seemed her whole blood-family had during this holiday. But a sincere acceptance of who she was and the promise of another day, soon, when we could talk, maybe over a same fire, for as long as she needed.

“I so would love that, Alfonso. You are a friend who knows what I have gone through. And life doesn’t just let up; it keeps throwing things at you. I know I must be strong and love even when I don’t feel it coming back to me. And I will be patient. And when you come, we will have your favorite polenta in that rustic style like we do in the hills, with the wild salad and that wonderful rough red wine with the color of the martyred saints that we first drank, so many years ago when we first met. I will wait for you until then. Ciao, mitico.”


Cassandra struck a cord - the universal desire to be loved. How extraordinary it is the person who gives and gives and asks for nothing in return. In Italy they are called Saints.

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

A Period of Adjustment

It was Tuesday at 11:50AM, Eastern Time. I got a call from someone wanting to know about a place to stay in Italy. I asked them if I could call them back after the new president took his oath and gave his speech. “What you’re listening to that used car salesman?” was the reply from the other end of the phone line.

No matter what your political leaning, we were witness to a rare piece of history that wasn’t cataclysmic. A new era, a time when the torch has been passed to a new generation of leaders. But no, my caller wouldn’t have anything to do with that.

Yesterday in the office, I was overhearing conversation after conversation with our programmers (folks who deal directly with the wineries and importers about their mutual business). I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We just finished a very difficult quarter for sales and January is traditionally a slow time. A time to catch our breath. To analyze our year and to plan our new year. But no, these well-rested (and well-tanned) winery folks wouldn’t have anything to do with that. They wanted to send palate after palate of overpriced wine into already bulging warehouses. As if they have been taking a siesta these last six months and think things are just as they have been. Business as usual. What a rude awakening they are in for.

The blatant reality is out in the streets. For two nights this week I have been in high-dollar Texas steak houses. And they have been empty. No one is picking up $150 Napa Cabs. They just aren’t. Sorry folks, but if you were to get away from your computer screen and go out and see for yourself, we wouldn’t have to push back so often.

Oh, I get it; the owners want to move their inventory. They’ve made big investments. We have to find a way.

Yes we do. But no we cant. Not right away. Not this time. If those same folks who were mocking the events in our nation’s capital had been listening that day, they would have heard that we all are going to have to make sacrifices. All of us. Well, the end of the line consumer already is making sacrifices and they still want to drink wine. But they want to be able to afford to pay for it. What is so wrong with that and why as marketers, do some of our colleagues not “get it?”

I sat in a few meetings lately and my mind wandered off. I wasn’t hearing any new ideas. I wanted to think we could brainstorm, but I seemed to be picking up the feeling of desperation from people who have run out of ideas and just wanted us to take their products off their hands. Or else.

Or else what? They’ll take their products to another house? As if the conditions on the other side of the road are any different? Large or small, these times are calling for new ideas, for folks willing to sacrifice their margins, or their pride, and get on with the show. Make ‘em laugh.

I heard the story of an uber-wealthy Napa Valley wine producer. They make a red that sells for $80-90. So already you can surmise their business isn’t tearing it up. But sitting in a second floor office with a 360 view of the vineyards on a beautiful winter day in Napa Valley, how can the sale manager not think the rest of the world is equally blessed. “Just take your allocation. Or else.” That’s the extent of his strategy?

Or else what? You’ll surprise all of us with an original idea? You’ll come down, off your lofty perch, and get on the dance floor? You’ll actually talk to a front-line retailer or one of those struggling steakhouses and make them see the sense of your argument? The evil of their ways?

And importers, too. They’re thinking Obama is going to save their world? Obama is drinking Prosecco, so now Prosecco will outperform Champagne. Poor, poor Franciacorta.

Or the Tuscan producer whose basic Chianti Classico has been designed to sell for $25? Now it’s not selling so well. But of course it is the fault of us here in America for not understanding the value of their product. Value is not the driving force. Money is. And money has dried up. Disappeared.

The French and the Italians, too, are being unbearably thick about this situation. This is not the time to cast a deaf ear. Don’t believe me? Just walk around Manhattan and see all the empty restaurant spaces that cannot sell your wine anymore, for any price.

The game is still the game. Folks still gotta want to be receptive. Ya dig?

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

" If we want things to stay the same, things will have to change. "

My grandfather Alfonso and Giuseppe Tomasi Di Lampedusa were the same age and from the same town. Both families frequented certain circles of Sicilian society. But when my grandfather was fifteen, he traveled to Texas and never moved back to Sicily.

I’ve often wondered why he never looked back. The family business was doing very well. I wonder if his father advised him to go to America in search of wider horizons. Perhaps my great-grandfather saw that Italy wouldn’t fit in my grandfather’s future.

When my father and his sister were born in Dallas, it wasn’t too much later that the family moved to Los Angeles. My sisters and I were born in Southern California and they still live there, as does most of my father’s family. Most of my family in California have very good business and are in good shape for the future.

Somehow, thirty years ago, I decided to move back to Texas, one step closer to the Italian reality that my grandfather left 100 years ago. And while I doubt I’ll complete my grandfather’s circle and return to Italy permanently, I somehow am attached to Italy more than my grandfather. All of this through a period of change, revolutionary change. It seems the last 100 years has been one giant change machine. And it looks like more is on the way.

I look at the life we hold up and want to continue, but know it was never sustainable. The large fast cars and even larger houses, the piles of money needed to warm a 9,000 square foot home that houses two, maybe three people, those days are coming to a close. Maybe not in two or three years, but in the next 50, most likely that will all be a memory of a time when folks took more than they needed.

If you’ve gotten this far, if you’re not a scanner of the first paragraph, then you’ll probably want me to get to the point.

Just like the book, “The Leopard", by Giuseppe Tomasi Di Lampedusa, which chronicled the last days of an era that had outlived its purpose, so now we are living in a time when in order for us to keep an equilibrium in our lives we must be agents for change, embracing it and moving with it. I am ready for this. Looking forward to it. This is our destiny and it is an electrifying time.

Further, with Italy and Italian wines, I feel purpose-bound to be a transmitter of that energy that will unbound us, to express the thoughts and necessities that those of us involved in Italian wine and culture must be cognizant of. I’m aware of the game. A line from The Leopard, “Forgive me for saying say, Colonel, but don’t you think all that hand-kissing, cap-doffing, and complimenting went a little too far?”, conveys a bit of the root problem, in places like Montalcino, Verona and Nuova York.

And because of the comfort zone that some folks in the Italian wine business have arrogated, I feel Italy is unwilling to go forward in these times. Some of it from hubris and some from lack of hope. But the numbers don’t lie. If Italy does not get beyond personal self-gain and self-inflicted drama, the market will leave them behind. There is too much energy coming from places like Argentina and Australia and California, wines and people who will tap into their spirit of place and send creations that will commend our new era.

Italy can do this, with the help of the many who can constantly recalibrate the momentum forward into the future, not stagnating along some tributary held hostage by narcissism.

“The Leopard” or “Il Gattopardo” is, for me, one of the greatest books ever written. Maybe because it taps into a level inside me that is molecular. DiLampedusa’s Sicily, from outward appearances, is gone. Without regards to the broken shards that are strewn all about, the steady flow of the molten dreg pushes us ever so steadily towards transformation.

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

The Tex-Mex of Tarantella

"You heard me, get me some chicken fried steak, frito pie and

fried chicken livers over here, on the double. You got it?"

Mixed bag from a crazy week. Where to start? Frank Bruni writes in the NYT about Italian food being the Tex-Mex of Europe. I just wish sometimes that Italian in America was as good as some of the Tex-Mex I’ve had here at base camp. Don’t get me started.

While we’re on the NYT blog watch, something Eric Asimov said the other day struck me: “the dance that comes of shooting oneself in the foot.” He was referring to, who else? The Montalcinisti’s.

All week the spiders in my house have been attacking me in my sleep. I am covered with spider bites. My skin has been crawling for days.

So we have Tex-Mex, Italian, dancing, shooting and spiders; I sense a theme here.

Earlier in the week I was at lunch with my Italian wine loving friend, Paul. We were at a little place in our neighborhood, York Street, talking about wine and food. Tasting a few wines, more for pleasure than anything. At the table behind me an Italian wine importer is chatting up his rep. He goes off on a property in Umbria and the consultant, Riccardo Cotarella, and how all his wines are overblown and why does he make Sangiovese taste like Zinfandel and why, oh why does he make Merlot? It reminded me of someone who was nega-ranting about Alice Feiring’s book ( or her position ) on a blog somewhere. I wanted to ask them all, “So you think you have a better idea? Then present it, get it out there and see what kind of mileage you can get from your point of view.” I know Cotarella is working to break away from the way he is perceived, we’ve talked about it. It’s like an artist that gets pigeonholed for a certain style and then, bam, he can only be a cubist or a surrealist or an abstract expressionist. Or a naturalist or a pure-wine Euro-loving Cali-hating effete snob. I want to say to these angry ones, have you ever picked up the phone and called these people? Or how about an email? Why not engage them in a dialogue? Why does everything have to be High Noon in this culture?

Look, the young importer seems to have a nice portfolio and I’m sure he is repping good people who are committed to their land. But is Cotarella any less committed to his evolution because he has found a thread of success that brings a lot of people to Italian wine? Quit knocking it. It’s cursing the darkness; it’s a mobius strip that will only drive you nuts.

Another day I’m in my kitchen with a bunch of wine and food folks with this cat from Copia and he’s in the basement mixing up the medicine and all of a sudden we’re drinking Riesling with lamb, Chateauneuf du Pape with seafood stew, asparagus with Napa cab and some fruit compote with a maderized 1971 Clos Saint Denise from Bertagna and you know what? Maybe it’s bunko, but everything worked. Even the Burgundy came back from the brink.

Ok, so maybe the dude knows how to do group hypnosis and we all were under his temporary spell, so he could schlep his secret sauce. The point is, there is always another way to look at things, without applying some dogma to it. Just being with it, observing it, thinking a little about it, maybe letting yourself be changed by it and moving on down the road to the next scenario that the future has in store for us. Huh?

Right now 40% of restaurant business in the US is take out, so that means they aren’t selling wine to those customers. The restaurant business is in the tanks. I was in a restaurant last night with a friend and he gets a call from a client wanting about 20 or so bottles of wine. The fellow couldn’t have planned his business a little better? And now he expect the salesman to stop everything he is doing so he can waste time and gas on a losing proposition to deliver this poor-planner his pittance of Pinot. And then the restaurateur wonders why his business is doing so badly?

Another restaurateur can't buy wine because he has to decide whether he should pay his wine bill or the note on his Mercedes. Of course, image is everything, so he stiffs the wholesaler. Again. And then someone like that will threaten the big suppliers if they don’t come in and spend money in the place. This whole thing this week is like watching a bunch of rats drowning from broken levees and in turn they start chewing off the arms of their fellow rats so that can have something to float on. Bizarre week in flyover country.

A comment on the state of the importer. Business is slow and people in Italy have got to know there is a slowdown in America. But hey, July is coming and then August and then Ferragosto, so we need to tidy up the office, get the orders in, so we can get on with our vacations.

I called a Brunello producer today. The last time I called him he was in India and said he’d call me back. Well, he must have forgotten. So I called and called and called again. Finally I reached him; he was in some ex-Soviet satellite city doing a winemaker dinner. I ask him how his Brunello is going. He says to me, “everything is Ok, everything is OK, just order the wine, Parker just gave it a 91.” We've got Toscana IGT's that Sir Bob gave 90's to and they are 1/3 the price of Brunello. And they're sitting in warehouses, moving slowly. So, how about instead, Parker giving me a gas card, something I can use?

I told him I wanted to know how his certification is going. I guess he is too busy spending time to develop the emerging economies to backtrack to the American circus. Just let Parker rate it and everything will be OK? NO-K.

Have you heard of the word staycation? That’s when you stay at home because it’s too expensive or you don’t want the hassle of traveling in these times. And more people are doing that. It’s only a small step before wine lovers do the same with wines. Hello Italian winemakers, marketers, owners, enologos and everyone else who is looking to the largest economy in the world for their wines: we do not want to be treated like we are total fools. Yes our demand for more than our share of the world’s energy is ludicrous. Yes we are fatted calves. But you are feeding from the trough and it’s got a shaky leg.

That same leg that the foot dangles from got shot by its owner, on account of we too, like the winemakers in Tuscany, and people all over the world, are still working this being human thing out. We are still trying to find our somewhereness on this blue orb. Do you or don’t you wanna dance?

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