Gig Order

Commentary by Beatrice Russo


IWG wrote about going off the reservation, in his last post. Have you seen the movie Apocalypse Now? Well, it’s one of is favorite movies, I know, because once when I watched his house for a week, I went through all his movies. And he had two versions of it.

For my generation, it’s a Vietnam era movie in which a couple of Green Berets go deep into Cambodia to assassinate a former soldier who has “gone native.” This Captain Willard dude is going after the renegade Colonel Kurtz. See the movie. I’m watching it close-up. Alfonso has gone “Kurtz” on me.

A few months ago he helped get me settled into this gig where I was around a lot of good wine, some money to pay the bills and a career track. Or so I thought. The reality was that if I don’t fight myself through the jungle I’ll never end up with much of anything. The whole wine biz deal is pretty much set on reaching these conditional goals that are constantly changing. I am Ok with a moving target, but, hey, I don’t see much incentive to excel, when the warlords at the top are controlling the numbers. IWG tells me to be patient, it will all work out. Like hell.

He’s off for a few days; has to take the vacation time or lose it. When he does, he escapes to his “isola” and leaves me with the keys. Only rule is that I don’t get all wicked and profane. No problem for me, I know how to make myself understood.

Anyway, he’s in the middle of a deal to bring in a line of new Italian wines and all of a sudden he’s verklempt about it. Dude has some gnarly emotions. Feels like he was handled. I told him to get over it, think about the poor suckers in the vineyards. Little young me, telling he who aspires to the pinnacle. Whatever. So he goes and takes off. Fine with me.

I IM’d my friend in Austin, tried to help her get me a bead on the scene. She was out “blitzing” some brand before the hurricane hits land. So she couldn’t help shore up the yurt.

Anyway, thank God he left a freezer filled with some better-than-sex Limoncello. Did I say that? Oh well, it’s been a dry haul lately and relief from Campania in the form of lemons and alcohol will offset my temporary personal disappointments.

And, you ask me, what does this have to do with the blog? Nada. Anymore than sequestering all the jalapenos has anything to do with making folks feel better. Don’t get me started. Here goes. We are now treating produce like we treat terrorists travelers. Stand here. Go through this screening process, drop your drawers, oops you have been infected with salmonella. It wasn’t bad enough that we all had to be infected with fear from the governmental overlords who get the jollies when all of us are scared to get on a plane? Now we have to be afraid of tomatoes? And jalapenos? What is going on in this country?

IWG is really going to freak with this one, but how about what we are all witnessing, this summer? I’m glad this is happening in my youth, although I’m not sure there will be much left in my older years. If I ever make it that far.

Ok, wine. That what everyone wants. I did try some flawless wines from the Loire. Neal Rosenthal stuff. Not Italian, so IWG will probably fuss. Not Verdicchio, he says. Not Fiano. Well, the last Fiano I had wasn’t Fiano. What’s up with that? I want acid, not bubble gum. I tell you, when that producer shows up next month, I’m going to corner him and defy him to turn his property back on track, little ‘ol me. I’ll get my friend in Austin and her southern Italian girlfriend to help me. I don’t want another wine from Southern Italy to taste like it’s from Australia or Paso Robles. Yeah, there’s a kind of hush, all over the world, alright. Telling me to shut my trap.

When the heck is IWG coming back? I can’t do this gig twice in a row.

A Sea of Affluence

Over the past year a little thread has been drifting past me. I hear a story about a couple going to Italy to spend time on a large yacht, another story about a fellow who travels to Italy with a concierge-in-waiting. A trend, or something that has always been there? It seems there is a whole 'nother Italy for a group of people who travel. I call it Italy-in-a-bubble.

For Americans who don’t travel much outside of their comfort zone, which in the last eight years there seems to have been a surge, there is the experience of getting on a very comfortable plane and going to the Italian peninsula. Once the craft touches ground, it seems everything is done to make sure this elite group of travelers never touches their feet on true Italian soil. Usually some kind of driver is waiting there to pick these affluent souls up out of the squalor in which the natives squat, and then there are whisked to some 5 or 6 or 7 star resort, the ones with the 800 count sheets and the white-goose-only down pillows. Or better yet, whisked straight to a port, like Naples or Ostia, where an offshore vessel awaits, private chef, staff and ambience included.

In the last month I have had a handful of people tell me they were “going to Italy” and described something similar to what I just laid out. Then they asked me where they should go once they got to Italy.

My first answer? How about going off the reservation? Dump the boat, get on land, get your Cole Haan’s dirty, and step outside of your protective cover. Inotherwords, go to Italy.

First of all, you are not a high ranking government official who needs security. What you need is some oxygen. Dress down; you can “do a Google” to help you find out how to do that. And get out of the hands of your handlers.

I understand it is difficult to go into a strange land where the language is different and the food comes from a garden instead of a freezer. Or that you might have to try the fresh Swordfish when you’d really rather have Chicken Parmesan.

Chi mangia solo crepa solo.

So you travel halfway across the world in your private jet or in business class with the headphones and the champagne and the lay-down seat. And you get to the airport where someone is waiting for you. And you are whisked away to a private resort on some secluded hilltop town that has been remade for the travel-elite, so you can rest from your journey. Then what? Is there a plan B, someway to escape the Stalag?

A million years ago I was in Naples for the first time. I was traveling alone, with a backpack and a couple of cameras. I decided to walk west from the Marina, see what I could see. It was August. About 10 miles later I end up in a little place called Pozzuoli. In those days there were lots of cork products, shoes made of cork, you name it. I didn’t have a lot of money, but I wasn’t too broke to buy a groovy pair of cork-soled sandals. I was surely not traveling the elite route, but it was the real Italy.

Along the way I met scads of children who were amazed at this tall, Italian-looking, jean-wearing alien. I spoke even less Italian than now. But you know what? That day was one of the great memories of travel for me, ever.

Sure I was out of my element. And I was walking alone in a poor part of Italy, that only 25 years earlier had seen war and destruction and famine. Starvation. Poverty. Got the picture? The children, many of whom are now the folks running the place, what were they going to do to me, rob my soul? Let’s say someone took a roll of film or even a camera, or a pair of jeans, so what? But it didn’t happen. Old women sitting on the outside of their homes greeted me as if I were a grandson. Some invited me in for a bowl of pasta, a glass of wine. That wonderfully real Campanian stuff. Kids wanted me to take pictures of them and kick the soccer ball around with them. Merchants wanted me to take things home for a pittance (this was the era when the dollar was worth 600 lire, and you could buy a meal for about 1100 lire).

I didn’t have a place to go back to. The super yacht wasn’t waiting off the coast for me to finish my day with the natives. There wasn’t a concierge in a Mercedes waiting up the street, car running, air conditioner conditioning. And guess what, I survived. Not only that, but with memories more golden than the sunset from that isolated cruiser that was never there waiting for me. And for those souls on those super-yachts who think they got a taste of the real Italy, or real anything, I am sorry for them. Because they got the freezer. For those who take that step outside of their Italy-in-a-bubble, they get the garden.

So who is basking in affluence, in the end? Is it the wealthy trophy wife who got off for an hour to go shopping at the boutiques in Capri? Or the young student with a backpack and a dream? I know which road I took, and will continue to take, as long as the real Italy will be there for me. And the deeper you go, the more gold you will find. And that is something that can never be taken from you, never pick-pocketed, never, ever goes away. Because it is the stuff of memories. And memories are the elite treasures of travel.

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

The Stake Behind the Sizzle

Driving along the scuttled roads of urban Austin, I finally found a parking place, after 10 minutes of searching. By some twist of fate, I managed to find a place in front of a building that once sheltered one of the most wonderful Italian spots in Texas. It was long gone now, replaced by serial restaurateurs with cash and concepts. The place was called Speranza’s, run by a young couple, Michael and Hallie Speranza, and it was a Mecca for anyone trying to show offbeat Italian wines in those days. The era was the early 1980’s and in those 25 years or so, many places have come and gone, and come again, professing to hold high the banner for all things Italian.

Austin is a place that defies categorization. So I won’t. But I am not sure the place is ready for the real deal, this time again. Italy isn't a fashion, not a flash-in-a-pan kind of thing.

Back to Speranza’s. Hallie was in the kitchen, and Michael would guard the door for interlopers. I remember him once telling me that people would come in looking for spaghetti and meatballs, or lasagna, and he would escort them out the door and show them to the nearby Spaghetti Warehouse, send them on their merry way. Speranza’s wasn’t a spaghetti and meatballs kind of place. Though if you wanted a really authentic Bolognese, you hit the jackpot.

Wine wise, we would bring in Dolcetto’s and Nebbiolo’s, Montepulciano d’Abruzzo’s and Tocai’s and they would be welcomed into this crazy little vortex of tipicita’. For a few brief moments, you were in a little trattoria in the Langhe or of some little side road in the Chianti zone. And then it went away. The Speranza’s shuttered their wonderful gem of a restaurant. It was like a death of a friend.

These days Hallie has rekindled her love for things Italian by offering to cater for private parties. And here we have the crux of the dilemma. Why does something as wonderful as the real Italian thing have to resurface on the side street of an emerging culture? Is it that the culture of Austin is so dominating there isn’t room for another “real” experience? Is the importance and coolness of Austin so restrictive that there isn’t any air in the room for poor little Italian culture to breathe? Is the heat from a Neapolitan kitchen just a little too hot for the cool culture? I find that really hard to believe.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some wonderful experiences that have sprung up. There is the casual and laid back Asti, which is always fun to see the convergence of things Italian in the spirit of Austin. There is Siena, which is this lifelike reproduction of an Italian castello, complete with the smells of the open hearth. And there is Vespaio, with its frenetic, Italian-with-a-nod-to-Nice fare. Good times. And there is Damian Mandola’s Trattoria Lisina in Driftwood, which gets so close you can almost smell it. But the real deal, without compromise, hasn’t been back since the Speranza’s shut the door on their little place.

I was talking with my Italian friend Daniela, a wonderful lady from Naples, who runs an Italian-styled place in Austin. I believe if she had the proper finances behind her, she would bring not only la cucina Italiana, but even better, la cucina povera, from the alleys and backstreets of Naples and Pozzuoli. That would be a dream worth hatching. With all respect to the hipness of Austin, to bring the ancient soul of Naples to the streets of Austin, complete with the proper, unspoofulated wines of Campania; a full-out love-fest from the Mezzagiorno.

I’m not talking about some Dellionaire who has a place in Tuscany and wants to impress their friends back in Austin with their manipulation of millions to appear to be Italian. I’m talking sweat, warts, octopus, Margherita pizza without Parmigiano, real, real, real. No compromises.

The Spaghetti Warehouse that Michael Speranza used to shuttle wayward clients off to is still there. OK, fine.

But for one moment, to just dream of gnocchi like Aunt Jena makes, to have an insalata di mare like one can only hope to find in Naples, or Ischia, or Mondello, or Austin? That is madness beyond anything imaginable, no?

Or maybe Austin will be remembered for its shrines to Tacos and Tex-Mex, and Bar-B-Que beyond belief, maybe that is really the channel for this lifestyle center. I’m OK with that, too.

But what if we could give someone like Daniela the means to fly her kite high and bring to Austin the thousands of years of embedded love and lust and sweat and inspiration from Campania? Would that this were also a sweet dream of someone out there reading this, with a few extra dollars and would love to see, with those of us who know it is possible.

Then maybe we could feel the heat from an authentic Southern Italian sizzle.

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

The Tune-Up

I have been driving around lately like gas wasn’t $4 a gallon. Just looked at the miles I've covered this week and I probably could have fed a family of four. In any event, Wednesday I headed out early from Dallas to Austin with a trunk full of wine, my trusty Koolatron chugging right along, ready to celebrate its 27th birthday in a few months.

Round Rock, Texas – once a low-water crossing on the Chisholm Trail, now an ex-urb with row after row of strip mall and tollway overpasses.

The day would start somewhat ominously; I got lost. That kind of thing happens when the empty field that was there a few months ago is now a sprawling complex of low rise apartments, retail shops, with nary a gas station in sight. Where there once was a Bar-B-Que pit, it now houses a sushi bistro. Texas has taken to crudo in century 21.

What else? A "gentlemen’s" club or two, after all, they are on the route sheet. Disciplina, as they said in Ancient Rome. Imagine this: making a cold call in 100°F weather, going into dark and dank clubs, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes pounds you as you escape the heat of the day. Inside the dark, the wet, chilly air conditioning, the heavy bass beat and an empty pole waiting for the dancers to change their shift.

A sign that says “WiFi here”, as if someone would come here to surf the net. Over in the corner a lonely guy is getting a heartless lap dance.

And somewhere around a series of corners, we lurch to find the bar manager.

My colleague walks straight and deliberate, like she is on a high wire. I'm impressed with her lack of fear in this den of improbability. But then again, she lived in Naples for four years.

We find a congenial guy, a businessman trying to figure out how to keep his margins healthy so he can stay open for this mixed blue and grey collar establishment. Every minute or so a “waitress” comes up to the bar with an order, Jack Black and Coke, Stoly on the rocks, that kind of thing. High octane in a tumbler.

Everyone is looking for an opportunity. The Piemontese make a low alcohol sweet slightly frizzante red that sells well in these places. The client can buy it for $12 and sell it for $80. The girls can drink it all night and never lose their balance, on the job. We talk about pitching it on another visit, after all the formal introductions have been made.

Flash-forward several hours later, after our main event. A couple of us are sitting outside under the warmish Austin night, quenching our thirst with an Alsatian Riesling. One in our party, a Master somm, related a story of how they charged, in one of their clubs in the meat packing district of NY, $700 for a bottle of Cristal. It seems that was too low, the wine was selling too fast; they had to go around the regular channels of procurement. So they raised the price, $1200, $1700, $2500. It got to the point that they couldn’t ask too much for a bottle of the stuff. Makes the $80 buck bubbly look like chump change.

Back to the main event. After driving in circles around the torn up streets of downtown Austin (everything is under construction, reminds me of Rome) I finally find a valet park ( which I hate) close to the spot where we be having the tune-up, Taste Select. I’ve got a baker's dozen selections of Italian wine for the event. We have Italians coming and a Master sommelier, a wine buyer for one of the hottest Japanese places in town, another top restaurant owner who lived in Italy, an MW candidate, an assistant winemaker, and several colleagues from the wine biz. Wines opened:
• Contadi Castaldi Franciacorta Brut

• 2007 Araldica “La Luciana” Gavi
• 2006 Re Manfredi Basilicata Bianco (Muller-Thurgau/ Traminer aromatico)
• 2000 Gravner Breg

• 2004 Capezzana Carmignano
• 2001 Podere Poggio Scalette Il Carbonaione (corked)
• 2000 Castello di Rampolla Sammarco

• 2003 Argiano Brunello di Montalcino ( the forbidden label)
• 1997 Angelo Sassetti Pertimali Brunello di Montalcino

• 2004 Re Manfredi Aglianico del Vulture
• 2004 Nino Negri “5 Stelle” Sfursat

• 1999 Produttori del Barbaresco Barbaresco
• 2001 Bruno Giacosa Barolo

• 2006 Fama Fiororange (Maculan Dindarello)

With the exception of the corked Il Carbonaione, all the wines showed well. Plates of charcuterie and small producer cheeses were served, this was a simple event, food wise, but the foods served were way above the high water mark. I know folks in NY, LA, SF, Italy are saying, yeah, but. Whatever, last night at Taste Select in Austin, we had the Family Table rockin'. And we learned lots of words in Napolitan' dialect.

Next month Texsom runs in Austin. Any folk who live nearby should get on the bus, when we feature Italy for two seminars along with Argentina, Washignton, Loire Valley, New Zealand, Medoc & Graves, Porto, Madeira & Sherry and an important seminar on Erstes Gewaches. If you are a sommelier and live in Texas, Louisiana, Oklahoma or wherever, consider coming to this. This is a growing event. Where else in the US can you go for a couple of days and hang out with a lot of great wine geeks?

Speakers & Panel Members-The List So Far:

• Guy Stout MS
• Fred Dame MS
• Greg Harrington MS
• Shayn Bjornholm MS
• Ken Fredrickson MS
• Keith Goldston MS
• Charles Curtis MW
• Brian Cronin MS
• Bartholomew Broadbent
• Wayne Belding MS
• Laura DePasquale MS
• Brett Zimmerman MS
• Larry O'Brien MS
• Alfonso Cevola CSW
• Joe Spellman MS
• Tim Gaiser MS
• Fernando de Luna
• Josh Raynolds
• Rebecca Murphy
• Diane Teitelbaum
• Paul Roberts MS
• Sally Mohr MS
• Joe Phillips MS
• Darius Allyn MS

I know the guys that have put this together, Drew Hendricks and James Tidwell, would love to see you at the 2008 Texas Sommelier Association Conference, August 17-18, at the Four Seasons Hotel in Austin Texas.

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

Shelf Deception

With everything in play the way it has been for the last 50 or so years, is anyone surprised that we now find ourselves in prime-time navel gazing mode regarding our future? In the early 1970’s we were not so gently warned to get our oil-addiction in check. And now, everyone is acting surprised that gas is $4 a gallon, like it’s the end of the world? Hello, that was the price of gas in Italy, in 1984.

Now we are starting to reluctantly see the introduction of the new pony cars, like the new Dodge Challenger or the new Chevy Camaro, which were designed way back when the price of oil was $40 a barrel and now it is $140. No wonder there isn’t too much excitement about those cars, except in places like the Chinese Billionaire Club or the Dubai Gazillionaire’s Guild.

Is it any surprise that now, not many fellows want to shell out the bucks for a pony car that will cost them $50 a day to run? The world that these cars were designed for no longer exists.

Likewise, in the Italian wine world, we also have these pony car wines that were dreamt up for a world that isn’t there waiting for them. The shelves are not begging for it, I have this on good counsel from the streets.

I know some of my importer friends and colleagues don’t like to hear it, but the world has presently turned away from something thought up to be uber and special, a luxury item created for an emerging market that can barely keep its head above water.

"It's not easy being green"

What is the typical wine of which I talk about? It is often from Tuscany but not limited to that area. The Maremma figures in here, seeing as there was a lot of investment and planting some years ago, in anticipation of the growth of the phantom category. It can be a blend of Sangiovese with Bordeaux varietals. Syrah can also be a component. It can also be found in the Veneto, in Piedmont, in Sicily, Sardegna, the Marche, almost anywhere. But Tuscany seems to be the poster child for these mis-planned opportunities that never materialized.

And I’m not meaning to throw down hate on my Tuscan brethren, but folks, I really don’t see how it will fly in these times. If anyone can find the rubes, please send some of them to me.

OK, so we get an email, or a meeting whereby we get this plea, more often in the form of a requisite for continued good relations. Time out.

Let’s say I am a salesman coming to your place, to sell you, let’s see, brushes. And I knock on your door, because you have been a good customer, have bought a lot of brushes from me in the past. Even tooth brushes and brushes to clean out the spokes in your car wheels. So you are a loyal client and you pay me always on time. Good times.

And I come to you and tell you I have built this brush factory and have invested heavily. And those brushes I have been selling to you for $5-6, I still want to sell them to you. But I need you to also buy a bunch of brushes for your house and they cost $12-15 and they only are good for the second floor. You can’t use them in the garage and they are useless in the dining room. They are only for the study on the 2nd floor or the guest bedroom. And not the bathrooms. And I need you to buy a dozen of them.

And you look at me and tell me you don’t need them, let alone a dozen of them. And I respectfully answer back that I hear you but I still need you to step up to the plate and honor the commitment that our relationship requires.

Can you feel the force of the door as it just got slammed in my face?

Now, I’m not saying that it would go that far. But just like Detroit has invested in something that is really not appropriate for the current market, so in other endeavors, there are products developed that just aren’t the greatest ideas for the world we find ourselves in.

What the world needs now - is it really another highfaluting Maremma wannabe that sells for $60, $80, $100?
I don’t see it, anymore than I see myself getting behind the wheel of a 9mpg Viagra-mobile.

What does excite me is to press on with the refinement of those wines that appear to be Italian concept wines, but closer to entry level prices. Look at the Asian car market, or better, look at the European car market. Within 2 years VW is going to have a car for sale that will get 235 mpg. How about an Italian wine that doesn’t suck all the spare change out of the glove compartment, something we can drive around our dining rooms and still be able to put pasta and salad on the table as well?


Something for the wine-concept gurus to think about, when they’re staring at themselves in the mirror, while they put on their sunscreen, before they head out to the seaside, during the month of August.

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

Under the Tuscan Stun

We’re deep into July now, the skin bakes well at 99° F. I might as well tell my sister not to print this one out for our mother, as she will just think I have lost my mind. And yes, I will digress.

Over the last week many wines were opened and tasted, in the course of duty and pleasure. Right now, I am tired of alcohol, but I am sure that will pass. Occupational hazard.

The coming week will be as equally challenging, with travel, tastings, a master class in Italian wine (in Austin), prepping the young pups for Texsom in August.

This whole wine thing, right now, has become such an obsession; it creeps into your life, your work, your closets, the fridge, under the table, another closet, a shelf with 20 years worth of Italian wine magazines. It really wraps itself around the saddle of your life and takes you on quite the ride.

Before you get to thinking this post is leaning towards the visually risqué, let me explain. The images shown have been created by the artistic duo known as Dormice. Dormice are Heinrich Nicolaus, born in Munich and Sawan Yawnghwe, born in Burma. Dormice live and work in Tuscany. I find their work compelling and I am fascinated with the way they pool their creative inspiration. They have a wonderful way with the use of color and form, and that is the simple reason why their work frames this post.

As the world turns, this time towards oblivion and that way towards exhilaration, I find this to be the stuff of summer and July. This month goes too fast for me; I could use two months of July. It sears my inspiration and keeps within me an overload of energy that fuels me deep into the late autumn- early winter time.

Tuscany, Tuscany, Tuscany. What on earth are they doing to you now? Earlier in the week I was sharing a bottle of a simple Chianti Classico from Melini, Il Granaio 2003, with three sommeliers. One, a Master-somm, who was in a great mood, replied something to the effect that this wine in it’s simplicity, how did she say it, something like it was so nice to just enjoy Sangiovese and Chianti like it is meant to be. I had to agree, not because I was trying to sell it to her and everyone else we had tasted that day. But it really was an epiphany to me, because here was this quiet little Chianti that had sat in the warehouse for many months, and it had blossomed into this pretty little wine. It wasn’t a stunner, but the experience was. Because, once again, you never know when the little wine god will creep up into a bottle and reveal itself, if you are quiet and fortunate and have others around you to help row the boat in the right direction. And those kinds of things are everywhere in this wine business.

Some time ago a salesman from a huge wine company called me up and asked me to please help him spread the word on their 2001 SuperTuscan. The wine was Alleanza, from Gabbiano. Usually that wine is not on the high priority list. There’s too little of it in any event. But when I took that wine home and tasted it during an evening, just by myself, again the midnight bloom arose from the bottle and beguiled me with its dance of seduction.

Over the years, another Chianti Classico, from Querciavalle and the Losi family, has been the reason for pause and reflection. This one comes with many visits and memories, something the over-inputted salesperson doesn’t have time for. Today as I was stretched upon the float in the pool, for one brief moment I was under anther sun, this time on the road near their winery going to the spot where their oak tree was struck down many moons ago. From that stunning moment, the raison d'être of the winery was forged.

Last week, another day, Gabrizia Cellai was in town to speak of her wines from Caparzo, La Doga and Borgo Scopeto. There was a moment when we were tasting Caparzo’s simple red, their Sangiovese. No Syrah, Merlot or Colorino, just straight Sangiovese. Again, here I was, at the altar, with something so simple and straightforward, just a blissfully uncomplicated come-across.

How is it a bee sting can be more significant than running into a wall? It might be because the bee pinpoints their focus on exactly one point. Running into a wall can be hard to spot, years down the road. Tonight I ran into a wall. At a friend house someone suggested I try the Silverado Reserve Merlot 1997. So I did. Just as I have tried many other wines lately from my home state. Somewhere I had a Russian River Chardonnay, and again I quizzed myself inside, wondering what it was I had missed. Oh please, California, look to the simple pleasures of wine and life. Less is more, really. Just as Italian food is characterized not by how much you can load into the dish, but rather how well you can work with three of four ingredients, isn’t time we looked to wines like that and celebrated them for their pure simplicity and the pleasure that it brings to us?

I walked away from the table after that ’97 Merlot. It was not something I would ask for with my last meal.

The other day of couple of older guys (older than me) came into a fine wine store where we were tasting the Chianti and they were asking for “big and bold Syrahs.” I really thought, at first, that they were liquor board guys; they had the “look.” I was disappointed when I heard them requesting the big Syrah like it was some kind of vinous Viagra.

So we have these characters looking to blow $60 on a big red lap dance and on the other end of the scale we have these jokers who come up and say something like this: “Anyone can find a great wine for a $100. It takes a real snoop to suss out the great ones for under $10. Yeah, that would have been a pretty fair way to go about it, back when the price of oil was around $14 a barrel. But now that snoop has fallen behind the reality of the times. Just like the restaurant that cuts back on the quality of the ingredients in their food, so there are measures that can be taken like that with wine. But why would someone continue on with such self deception? Younger generations don’t do that, in fact they see wines at $15-20 as a baseline. And yes, I have gotten off track.

What I am saying is that here we were with this little Chianti from Melini that has five years of age on it, sells for about $20, has some maturity to it, is balance, is simple, is correct. What else do you want? That’s the end of the rainbow. The lightning bolt. The Golden Fleece .

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

artwork by Dormice