August 10, 2008From: La Isola
I find it nearly impossible to wade into shallow water these days. Or maybe the problem is that I am wading in shallow water thinking it’s the deep end. I really didn’t intend to go here today. But sitting under the sun, watching the earth rotate while clouds above smirked at my insular orientation, it just popped out.
It started last week as I visited a group of restaurants. Here in North Texas it is restaurant week, a two to three week period in which selected restaurants dream up a three to four course menu, some of the proceeds going to a charity. Diners flock to these places, in the hope of getting a taste of a life they don’t normally frequent. Salespeople for distributors have been scrambling to print special food menus and to also reprint wine lists. Some of the wine lists will show higher wine prices.I had forgotten that happened. After all, the other day I was looking at a list in the northern-burbs with a wine that I know the restaurant paid about $17 for. On the list they had it priced at $66. Ouch.
But does it really matter? We have countries going to war with each other, does it really mean anything if some poor slug in a bedroom community spends a little more than he should for a bottle of wine? So he pays $20 more than he should. He drives 30 miles less than he would if he drove into town with his gas-hog SUV, which gets 12mpg. Which works out, at $4 a gallon, to saving him about $10 in gas. And then there’s the time factor. So when countries across the planet are sending their citizens out and away from targeted urban areas to escape destruction of life, it really isn’t that big of a deal.Back to Italy. A farmer makes a wine and sells it for €4.50, that’s about $6.75. It costs about $1 for taxes and to get it over. The importer adds 35%, the wholesaler adds 28% and that brings us to almost $17, if you round up. The restaurant owner marks it up to $66. That’s 10x, with the highest mark up at the end. BYOB places start looking better and better. Or cooking at home.
I mention this to a friend and colleague, who is also a mid-level manager. Forget about talking to the bar manager about this; they do not want to hear about anything that has to do with them making lesser margins, in percentage points. Bean counters don't want to hear it. Forget about the argument that you take dollars to the bank, not percentages. Forget the concept of getting good press for marking up your wine and then having the word spread. Forget about taking more money to the bank. And then folk wonder why so many places across the country are closing? Ask Charles Darwin.
The feel good part to this story? When you go to Italy and buy that same bottle of wine in a trattoria, you’ll probably pay somewhere around €12, which is under $20. See, the dollar doesn’t really suck as bad in Italy as it does in the US. And you’ll probably get charged somewhere around €50 (US $75) for dinner for two. So you get out for under $100. In a similar situation in Anytown, USA with the wine costing $66 and two people eating for around $50 each plus tip, you’re looking at almost $200. And the food will probably better fresher, simpler and better at the place in Italy. Now doesn’t that make you feel better?
It almost makes taking a vacation a cheaper thing to do than to just stay home. But then, home is where the work is, and the family, the life, etc.While taking a ten day or two week vacation might be something that some folks reading this do on a regular basis, what do you do about the daily routine when you are at home?
Learning how to cook is a good first step. Then, learning where to source fresh, local or otherwise wholesome ingredients is a good next step. If you are lucky enough to have a store specializing in the foods you love, you are a very lucky person. In my home town, not far from where I live, there is a store that does that. Only Italian products. Even here in flyover country we have folks who give a damn. Mike and Paul DiCarlo, who own Jimmy’s in Old East Dallas (what used to be the Italian neighborhood), have dedicated themselves to all the above, and priced for folks other than the millionaires who are constantly worrying about losing their fortune. So that would be for most of us. Very cool solution.
And when another Italian restaurant closes in my town, I will not mourn its loss. All the more if they never listened to me about which wines to use and whether or not to employ fair pricing. Natural selection, the survival of the fittest.And after 25+ years, that’s how I wage war. Quietly, peacefully, and with a good meal and a bottle of wine of my own choosing.
But googootz thrives in the old Italian neighborhoods, one the East coast, up in Chicago, down here in Texas, and especially in 
Women love to grow and pick googootz. The older ones even know how to cook it. My Nonna’s knew how to. My mom used to cook it for my dad and us kids. My mom’s recipe was good. It seems that everybody’s mom has a special recipe.
Some of those old Italians just loved to see how long it could get. They have contests in Canada to grow them at unbelievable lengths.
The plants take over the yard. And then they produce the fruit and they really go to town. I mean, before it’s over everybody is giving the stuff away. A little goes a long way.
The Northern Italians sometimes make fun of the Southerners love for cucuzza. I don’t know why, I think they just like to find anything they can to make fun of them. Kind of the way the old schoolers from the East Coast would taunt those who lived in the Southern states of the USA. Just plain ‘ol ignorance, manifestations of archetypical pathology. Probably don’t like accordions either.
I have been thinking about pain lately. Pain as pleasure. Pain as remembrance. Pain as ennoblement. It can double one over on a regular basis if it is sharp enough. It can recall moments from the past that never go away, never heal. It can remind one that all this is fleeting and transitory, this earthly shell, this carnal cage. And yet, we press on, we scrape and bite and scratch our way toward making sense of some thing in order to give these few moments a sense of meaning, a reason for being.
What ever one finds on the trail, wine will never be enough. But without wine, the pain could be unbearable. Sounds like something one might find in the writing of a desperate visionary from the late 1800’s? Perhaps. Maybe from a solitary soul sitting at his favorite restaurant in Palermo after WWII, working on his only book. Never to be published in his lifetime.
First of all he would see his children, and many others’ children, scarring themselves with elaborate decoration. His precious glass of wine, the one that he drinks everyday, that un quarto of vino bianco, might be a little brighter, a little lighter, a little merrier. Not so morosely introspective, so muddled, so flaccid. Pain as release from burdensome memory. Grillo gone girly.
His beloved trio of reds, Barolo, Brunello and Amarone, might appear a bit different after their last Crusade. Barolo will be leaner, more erect and youthful. Brunello would now pose as the standard bearer, the model of virtuous deportment. And Amarone will have lost his baby fat, not so sweet and lovable now, the campaigns have leaned him out and made him self aware and solemn.
One bright light in his fairy tree might be the white wines of the Northeast. Lithe and hopeful, not without having lost a little of their youthful innocence, but still hopeful in the anticipation of purity and promise. Fifty years have wrestled the fairy princess from the shackles of the grave Teutonic sentinel. Fifty years have produced lightness and a Lolita-like twinge from a high acid and sharp fruit profile.
Over in Barbarossa land, he might witness a still brooding range of reds, from Basilicata to Puglia, but he would also see that the lord of the manor had been wrestled to the ground and is now a servant prince. The price to pay for dominance can often be to serve. While wines to the north queue up for tankers filled with the golden rich sunshine of the red wines from the South, no one bothers to accuse those in the South of adulterating their wine with the thinner, weaker reds from Tuscany or Piemonte. And why bother? Barbarossa knew where to conquer and to be conquered in like. The pain of domination and a region ascends into a world that for thousands of years thought little of their Southern cousins.
Not one to gamble, except in matters of the heart, the old writer peered once again over his glass of wine and looks into the abyss. Staring back in a vacuous manner was an unkempt little tramp, Soave. Back in the day, the little white wine from the Veneto would be seen in a few restaurants in Palermo and would be seen with the various antipasti making their way in the bars of the Charleston. Nowadays, how would he feel about the stylish little osteria near his home, I Vespri, in the Palazzo Cagni of his family homestead? Instead of a solitary offering of Bolla, he could find the various bottlings of Tamellini, Inama and Pieropan. Not a huge gamble, no big stakes, but something gained, something won from the last fifty years.
Whirlwind week. Three days in Chicago, marathon wine tastings and food forays. Korean, Italian, Pizza, New American. Sicily, Piemonte, Campania, Wachau. That’s right. Wake up at 4:30 AM to catch a flight from Dallas to Chicago. Meet up with my colleague and Master-Somm, Guy Stout. Three days later, back to Dallas in the evening. Unpack, rest a few hours and wake up again at 4:30 AM to drive to Austin and then to Blanco for the Syrah harvest at Stout Vineyards. Arrive just as the last of the grapes are being rounded up and taken to a nearby winery for crushing. Fruit was good (24-26 brix), a small but healthy crop. From Nerello Mascalese on Etna to Syrah in Blanco, quite a week on the wine trail, from Italy to the hill country of Texas. And did I say it was hot?
Chicago was cooler, only in the 80’s (°F). The city really feels comfortable this time of year. I know it sounds crazy, but 105°F has a way of making 85°F seem like a cool front. I realize every city has its good and its bad but we had some great Italian (and Austrian) wine and food to match. A little less hectic than NY, more like a bunch of neighborhoods closer by. Love them both, but it was nice to reconnect with Chicago.
On the road again in Texas, to the Syrah harvest. A great time to connect with colleagues, co-workers, friends, clients and sit under the stars and talk to each other about wine and food and where the heck this is all taking us. That’s something about the Texas experience that is pretty unique. We all spend time talking to each other, moving this ship a few inches at a time. There is a great energy in this area, along with the heat, that I have not seen anywhere else in the country. I know some folk like to discharge Texas as some nameless, faceless place along the flight patterns from the East coast to the West coast. That would be a dismissive and erroneous; something very definitely is going in this country below the skies.
How does harvesting Syrah have anything to do with Gragnano or Gruner? I reckon it is all in the way one might understand the synchronicity of apparently unrelated experiences and how they add up to a whole new direction. We’re in the middle of something right now; I can’t even put my finger on it. But I know it’s there and it’s coming and it’s a pretty exciting time.
So sitting under the porch (where it was only 92°F) we were chatting about Aglianico and Valtellina Superiore, all five of them (Sassella, Grumello, Inferno, Valgella and Maroggia). One in our group was relating the difference between Fiano on the coast and Fiano inland and at higher elevations. She should know, being our resident Southern Italian wine expert. Another was on a mission to learn everything he could about Valtellinese wines. Kids after my own heart.
We spent some time talking to George Vogel, a peach farmer near Johnson City. Decided to go visit him and talk to him about ancient farm tools for a project one in the group was researching. George just turned 80, has spent his whole life in and around Johnson City. A pretty amazing place, the feel of it, the spirit of the place is All West, individualistic, a little LBJ thrown in there (remembering a President from Texas that was bigger than life) and a time spent listening to stories about the Germans and the farmers and the peaches. Good setting for an area that from 38,000 feet doesn’t seem to important. What does at that altitude? On the ground with a real person, and a story teller to boot, that’s the strength of this place.
Comfort minded folks need not apply. Stick to a comfortable air conditioned seat in a safe and darkened movie house, or the front of an airplane, and just fly on by. Getting through the security line at an international airport isn’t the work that interests us here on the front lines. This is the part of the wine trail for those who aren’t afraid of the heat or the streets. This is where we will build our trade, in the 21st century, from the rustic vineyards in Italy to the rugged frontiers of America.
Three days in Chicago, before the harvest in Blanco, Texas. Tasting new wines from Austria and Italy. Eating our way through this town. Korean, new American, Italian and Pizza. Today we had a trio of pizze from 
The Truffle pesto, the Marinara and the Salsiccia e Broccoletti, Pizza Bianca with Italian Sausage, Rapini, Fior Di Latte Mozzarella. They just kept getting better. The last one, Salsiccia e Broccoletti, took my breath away.
Wines? 
• Wine for the family to drink through the winter: Pour into a jar 10 quadrantals of must, 2 quadrantals of sharp vinegar, 2 quadrantals of boiled must, 50 quadrantals of fresh water. Stir with a stick thrice a day for five consecutive days. Then add 64 sextarii of old sea-water, cover the jar, and seal ten days later. This wine will last you until the summer solstice; whatever is left over after the solstice will be a very sharp and excellent vinegar.
• To coat the brim of wine jars, so as to give a good odor and to keep any blemish from the wine: Put 6 congii of the best boiled must in a copper or lead vessel; take a hemina of dry crushed iris and 5 pounds of fragrant Campanian melilot, grind very fine with the iris, and pass through a sieve into the must. Boil the whole over a slow fire of faggots, stirring constantly to prevent scorching; continue the boiling, until you have boiled off a half. When it has cooled, pour into a sweet smelling jar covered with pitch, seal, and use for the brims of wine jars.
• To remove a bad odor from wine: Heat a thick clean piece of roofing-tile thoroughly in the fire. When it is hot coat it with pitch, attach a string, lower it gently to the bottom of the jar, and leave the jar sealed for two days. If the bad odor is removed the first time, that will be best; if not, repeat until the bad odor is removed.
• To impart a sweet aroma: Take a tile covered with pitch, spread over it warm ashes, and cover with aromatic herbs, rush and the palm which the perfumers keep, place in a jar and cover, so that the odor will not escape before you pour in the wine. Do this the day before you wish to pour in the wine. Pour the wine into the jars from the vat immediately; let them stand covered for fifteen days before sealing, leaving space for air, and then seal. Forty days later pour off into amphorae, and add one sextarius of boiled must to the amphora. Do not fill the amphorae higher than the bottom of the handles, and place them in the sun where there is no grass. Cover the amphorae so that water cannot enter, and let them stand in the sun not more than four years; four years later, arrange them in a wedge, and pack them closely.
• To blend a wine as a remedy for retention of urine: Macerate capreida or Jupiter, add a pound of it, and boil in 2 congii of old wine in a copper or lead vessel. After it cools, pour into a bottle. Take a cyathus in the morning before eating; it will prove beneficial.
This is the ideal time of summer; lying out in the pool, on my isola, thinking about the little sounds and sights and smells that make up the perfect day in July.
This is a yearly event, bringing dancers, artists, musicians, actors, clowns and jesters to this one place in the country, to celebrate the casks and the wine and the middle of the summer. Large women are seen carrying these gigantic platters for the fire; today they are feeding the artistic community and we have been invited by the winemaker.
The invitation was only sent a few days before. To get all the players together was a major feat, but this is a dream, all things are possible. The invitation went like this:
I thought it a little strange when I got closer and started hearing all kind of animal sounds. A tent by the side of the building was pitched, a circus had stopped by. The smell of fresh seafood and garlic, mixed with the exotic aroma of capers, saffron and rosemary, filled the air.
This was the wine we had been searching for. It wasn’t some baked, tired, brown mass of lifeless juice with an alcohol base. And it wasn’t a mass of vanilla and butter, seamless and uniform, as if it could have come from anywhere in the New World Order of Winemaking. It was perfect. Crisp and juicy, an acidic marmelata to relieve the rice and the mussels of their responsibility to be the sole nurturing force. It was golden, it was sunshine, the tan on the arms of a young woman working in the fields, the little hairs on the small of the back of the newborn baby, the strength of the pizzaiolo, gathered after all those years in front of a hot oven, working his life away for his art.
The food, the circus performers, the exotic animals, they all retreated to the edges of the dream. All that was left was a pitcher in the late afternoon sun by the edge of the water and the sublime silence of a hot summer day; the synchronization of a life searching for that perfect moment, found by accident, over a festival for an ancient grape.
