The Newest Best Italian DOCG list (now up to 50 and holding?)

Revised March 13, 2010
In my research, it has been all but impossible to pinpoint the complete list of Italian DOCG wines. Recently, I have been able to find eight more, the newest being Aglianico del Vulture and the duo “Amarone della Valpolicella” and “Recioto della Valpolicella”, Moscato di Scanzo, Elba Aleatico Passito and Prosecco Superiore Conegliano Valdobbiadene, Prosecco Superiore Asolo And a two Marche DOCG's of Verdicchio of which there are designations for Verdicchio di Matelica and Verdicchio dei Castelli di Jesi Classico (and riserva) , bringing the list up to 50.

If anyone knows of any more DOCG wines, or if there is a list available that is more complete or accurate, please feel free to contact me. I have looked on the Italian Trade Commission site; they still list only 35 wines. Wikipedia lists 36 wines.Winecountry.it only lists 32 wines. Luca Zaia’s website has nothing on the DOCG, but he’s just the minister of agriculture, why would he need to have one? I guess having seven Facebook pages (one personal and six groups, sorry you have to be a member to follow the link) makes up for it. There’s nothing to be found about it on the Italian Wine Merchants site, but then again, they make no claims to be the best educational site for Italian wines, just this statement, “Since 1999, Italian Wine Merchants (IWM) has worked diligently to demystify Italian wine through its detailed website and weekly E-letter, Wine Clubs, educational tasting events and a carefully selected portfolio of current and vintage Italian bottlings.” But no demystifying by listing a current and complete DOCG list can be readily found on their site.

Update March 13, 2010, from Muddy Boots blog

posted by Luciano Pignataro on his own blog: the excellent news that the Aglianico del Vulture appellation will be given DOCG status.
As he reports, the DOCG designation will require Riserva wines to be held for five years before market release.
The current DOC appellation will of course continue to be used for high-quality wines of perhaps lesser longevity.
The Basilicata IGT's will be given to wines that fall outside of disciplinare rules.
Let me quote Luciano directly at the end of his writeup:
Experience shows that it isn't the appellation on the label that determines a wine's success, but it certainly helps shape its identity, which is what's happened with the three DOCGs of Irpinia [in Campania].
In our judgment, Aglianico del Vulture absolutely needs this recognition to hoist itself to the level of Taurasi and become a standard-bearer in the South for the lovers of wine red.

Update Dec 1, 2009: Vino Wire reports this:

According to a press release published last week online by the Italian Agriculture Ministry, the DOCG for Amarone della Valpolicella (previously a DOC) has been approved by Italy’s National Wine Commission: “I am particularly proud,” said Minister Luca Zaia, “to be able to announce that [Italy's National] Wine Commission has approved recognition of Amarone della Valpolicella as a DOCG [designation of controlled and guaranteed origin]. This is the highest recognition of quality allowed by [Italy's] national and [EU] Community law and this extraordinary Italian agricultural product deserves it without a doubt. Such recognition is also owed to the passion of Amarone producers, who, over the centuries, have helped to establish this product in the Veneto, in Italy, and the world.” (Translation by VinoWire.)

The best site so far is in Italian, Agraria, which has 41. Please do not write me and tell me that they have 43 because that is what you counted. They have Moscato d'Asti listed separately, but it falls within the Asti DOCG, OK? Also at the end they list Vin Santo. At this time it is not DOCG. They also do not have the three new DOCG's (that I know of) listed on their site(as of March 22, 2009).

Update 2: Luca Zaia has brought in another DOCG for Prosecco. Read about his accomplishments and achievements here. Thanks to Laura De Pasquale for the info. And thank you, Dr. Zaia!

I fear I am missing something, but for the life of me, the byzantine workings of the Italian government and the folks who determine which wines will be awarded DOCG status eludes this most ardent researcher. I guess I haven’t learned the secret handshake. Until then, we are at either 48, as of December 1, 2009, which have been given DOCG status. Here is the list, after the jump.

Complete Listing of Italian DOCG Wines (as of March 2010) :50

Abruzzo (1)
Montepulciano d'Abruzzo "Colline Teramane"

Basilicata (1)
Aglianico del Vulture Superiore (new)

Campania (3)
Fiano di Avellino
Greco di Tufo
Taurasi

Emilia Romagna (1)
Albana di Romagna

Friuli-Venezia Giulia (2)
Colli Orientali del Friuli Picolit
Ramandolo

Lazio (1)
Cesanese del Piglio

Lombardia (5)
Franciacorta
Oltrepo Pavese
Sforzato della Valtellina
Valtellina Superiore
Moscato di Scanzo (new)

Marche (4)
Conero
Vernaccia di Serrapetrona
Verdicchio di Matelicab Riserva (new)
Verdicchio dei Castelli di Jesi Classico Riserva (new)

Piemonte (12)
Asti spumante - Moscato d'Asti
Barbaresco
Barbera d'Asti
Barbera del Monferrato Superiore
Barolo (Chinato, as well, falls under this DOCG)
Brachetto D'Acqui o Acqui
Dolcetto di Dogliani Superiore o Dogliani
Dolcetto di Ovada Superiore
Gattinara
Gavi o Cortese di Gavi
Ghemme
Roero (Rosso & Bianco)

Sardegna (1)
Vermentino di Gallura

Sicilia (1)
Cerasuolo di Vittoria

Toscana (8)
Brunello di Montalcino
Carmignano
Chianti
Chianti Classico
Elba Aleatico Passito (new)
Morellino di Scansano
Vernaccia di S.Gimignano
Vino Nobile di Montepulciano

Umbria (2)
Montefalco Sagrantino
Torgiano Rosso Riserva

Veneto (8)
Bardolino Superiore
Recioto di Gambellara
Recioto di Soave
Soave Superiore
Conegliano Valdobbiadene Prosecco Superiore (new)
Asolo Prosecco Superiore (new)
Amarone della Valpolicella  (new)
Recioto della Valpolicella (new)

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

Take a walk on the wild side – Abruzzo’s love pat to Barbera and Chianti.

While this week has been all about Barbera in Piedmont, on the wine trail in Italy Texas has been all about Abruzzo. The jovial, fresh wines of Montepulciano have brightened up many a wine for Tuscans, The Veneto and points beyond. And as the world debates the value of wine in places like Napa, New York and Nizza Monferatto, these past few days with Stefano Illuminati and the Illuminati mini-van on the run has been a virtual Gospel revival bus of Italian wine.

Not that there haven’t been the occasional introspective moments. We happen to live in a wealthy part of the world, so the aftershocks of the economic quake that hit months ago aren’t felt as intensely. But one of my Italian friends admonished, “stay attentive” – we are not finished in this cycle quite yet. Folks in Abruzzo understand such things, having been rippled by the earth below their feet countless times, the last time almost a year ago when Aquila was almost leveled.


Surprise of the trip? An experimental wine from Illuminati, the Nico. I first had this wine in the 1980’s when Illuminati was making their charge up the hill to be seen as one of the leaders for quality wine from Abruzzo. Made from passito Montepulciano, this wine has been a laboratory for ideas from the Illuminati winery. It has also been the wine that the older winemaker Spinelli symbolically passed the baton to the younger winemaker, Capellacci. Now the wine, for me, has taken on a life of its own, the conversation is now between me and Nico, no longer between the generations of winemakers that are part of the history of illuminati.


Old friend and colleague Guy Stout was in the room this week when we tasted the 2003 Nico. At the first whiff of the wine, prickly and a bit wild, I walked over to Guy. “You detect a little volatile acidity?” I asked him. “ I do – a lot.” He said and smiled. The lack of “polish” made us both happy. Here was a wine with a life life that someone hadn’t styled into a pretty little high-test velvet bomb. Note to Barbera producers- take a walk on the wild side, free the Barbera- it’s working for some of the upcoming producers in Abruzzo. And we like the results here in Texas and America.

Stefano said it well, and this isn’t the first time I have heard it. He said, “Our grandfathers used to sell their grapes to Tuscany, to Veneto, to France. We don’t have time for that now. We need our grapes.”

We need our grapes. And while not every grape from Abruzzo is destined to be put in a bottle that says “Made in Abruzzo,” the young generation has a reason to be fiercely proud of their progress.

Yesterday as the minivan was carrying us from hotel to meeting, Stefano made a call to his friend and colleague Leonardo Pizzolo, who is also barnstorming Texas towns with his Montepulciano from Valle Reale. The two talked, will miss each other in Texas, one in Austin while the other is in Houston, I overheard the conversation they were having in Italian. Leonardo was seeing the wine lists with scores of Chianti wines on them, but maybe only one wine from Abruzzo. “How is it they can put so many Chianti’s on their lists and half of them are so awful. They don’t speak of where they come from.” Maybe Leonardo, because the wine in the bottle doesn’t come from Tuscany? Or maybe because too many people in Tuscany have lost their way?

Two days ago, sitting around a table in Houston with a group of young sommeliers we had that same discussion. “I just don’t think of Chianti as an interesting wine anymore,” one of them remarked. After a heated discussion that got into the styles and the areas, I think they are more confused about the style of Chianti because there are so many expressions of what Chianti is. And while we won’t solve the problems for Tuscany or Piedmont at a table in Houston (we’ll save that honor for the halls of Vinitaly in a few weeks) the discussion rages on.

The young sommeliers want to know more about the Italian wines, especially being exposed to young producers who are their peers, who have come up in similar times. And honestly, the experience of growing up in the last 20 years, where communications have flattened the world, where we get around more, have allowed for a closer sharing of the life experience, more so than ever before. Just look around you, people are plugged into their electronic tribes like never before.

And that, dear readers - especially anyone looking out, looking in on the ground at one the battlefields to save Italian wine from becoming “international” - that is what we have been meeting about here on the wine trail.


The bus leaves out of here in 45 minutes and I have to get packed and ready - we have a gig in Dallas @ 10:30 AM!

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

No Country for Old Wines

Happy 82nd, Oscar!

Have Italian wines become like cinema? Has oak become what full frontal nudity was in the 1970’s, now hackneyed and dull? Do we look for nuance in wine and film and walk away from a dark room or a disappointed table with similar letdowns?

Last night I went to visit my friend Jay the pizzaiolo, who was halting his guerilla restaurant for a few weeks of renovation. Inside the dining room, people had brought their own wines. I surveyed the tableau – Silver Oak, Kosta Browne, Caymus. I had brought a little Piedirosso, and it felt like I had just landed in America with my little satchel of handmade (and outmoded) clothes, walking onto the stage of my new life. And that is what the original wines from Italy must endure when they, too, come to America, walking the red carpet, without the sponsorship of Muccia or Donatella. Perhaps that is why some of the new, young energy of Italy, those affluent enough to send their children over to visit or to work in Napa or to take classes at Davis, have sussed out the future of the business. We aren't in La Terra Trema territory anymore. No, Italian wines have morphed into some Avatar of expectation, at least in many minds who reside in the heads of those who sit at the tables across America. And apparently in Italy, too?

I’m not going to go all sans soufre on y’all, but once again I stand on the corner of Any Given Sunday and Bloody Monday, that glorious time between reflection and heading back to the streets, and wonder if I am ever going to get Back to the Future?

Which begs the question, “OK, Alfonso, what do you think they need?” To which I begin by answering, "It's The Magnificent Seven meets The Barbera 7". It’s not what they think they need, but it is what we need to bring back – and those are the real expressions of Italian wine, that even when winemaking was less sophisticated, those old guys (and gal) were able to coax into the bottle.

My feeling is that it has more to do with the character of the person than the vineyard or the barrel room. The terroir of the human soul. I keep thinking of those people who still have the connection, who aren’t acting, who are living out the drama of their lives but with a realism that has been lost, in the bottle and on film, these last 20 or so years. And that is the crossroads that Italian wine teeters on, seemingly often.

Enough of the Blazing Saddles romp we have been getting, this is a High Noon moment.

How do you know you have lost something precious if you have nothing to compare that loss to? It is that way with so many things in youth. We cannot fathom the loss of a soul mate or a parent, because it hasn’t happened to us. Sure, one can read Lampedusa or Emily Dickinson or Paul Auster, but until the pin pricks your finger and you bleed, you will not know it as intimately. Viscerally.

And again, the director taps me on the shoulder and asks me to pull focus, bring it in for a close up, get to the point.

I do see light in the tunnel. The Piedirosso I brought to the pizzaiolo had been sanded with a rough grade of paper, but it had True Grit. The Primitivo we served in Marfa last week had the rough-and-tumble character of Accattone. You could almost feel the glass shards piecing your poor bare feet as you let a wine slip from the stained cup into your unbrushed teeth. Was it pleasant? It wasn’t pretty from all the make-up. It was a Giant, but it was frank. It was truthful. And that made it a beautiful thing.

What was once the key to the kingdom, getting a great revue and 90+ points or the three glasses from Gambero Rosso, all that has been rendered useless in this Mad Max world, where the rules of economics have been disco-oxygenated so trophy hunters can fill their silos. They can still have their 100 point Walk in the Clouds and drink their $300 cult wines too. When The Eclipse comes (isn’t it already here?), those with mega Euros will have plenty of oaked wines to drink with their canned foie gras in their tax deductible offshore underground shelters cellars. "I'm gonna live forever, baby remember my name." Oh yeah.


Until then, I will hope for a time when more can take pleasure in the joys of wine and in the simple satisfaction of unadulterated, accessible, drinkable wines. Wines that have Places in the Heart . Wines that we can really, really love. Wines that go with real food. Then maybe it will be time again for a Capra-esque return to that Wonderful Life.



And the winner is….

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

Photos from Oscar nights of past

Longing, Returning, Leaving

A few days ago while I was foraging for lettuces and herbs in my back yard, I heard a familiar cry. At the top of a tall power line the sparrow hawk was hailing me. He was back to raise another brood, teach them to fly and then head back to wherever they go when winter returns. For me it was a hopeful sign that this very long winter might be coming to a close.

The next day I got on a plane and headed to far West Texas. An hour flight and a three hour drive led me back to Marfa for a wine dinner. The journey in is always a mind cleanse for me. From home base, the hard core urban setting, to the airport, where all of our fears are laid bare as we walk shoeless though filters poised to reveal anomalies in hope of finding evil, so that it might be rooted out. Then to a dusty, rural airport, Midland, home to my dear Uncle Lou and his family, amidst oil wells and childhood homes of world deciders. But the real purge comes in the drive from Midland to Marfa, when the landscape that is revealed sews itself in ones pocket so deeply so as not to ever be lost. There are many people at my final destination that night who are longing- longing for art, longing for love, longing for simple. One night under a universe of lights wont abate that longing, more to serve as a reminder to the city dweller that a larger universe of ideas, of Everything, is still there in spite of our tendency to narrow it down to an explanation that puts each and everyone of us in the middle of a micro-oxygenated universe of our own making.

Nothing you can know that isn’t known.
Nothing you can see that isn’t shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.
It’s easy.

I have done my 200th wine dinner, again. They are like kites- trying to keep them in the air, making sure the tail doesn’t tangle, hoping the kite doesn’t tear away, and when the kite finally flies and one runs out of string and the kite sails for 30 minutes or so, to reel it in? Or let it go? This night I got the kite up in the air pretty quick, got the room where I thought I wanted to go, like some West Texas preacher testifying about the Revelations of Gaglioppo and Inzolia. The dining room, high ceilinged, like a cathedral, held the dry air. I didn’t need to shout. I started channeling the poets, Lennon, Neruda, Whitman. I had them, the tail was untangled, the wind was blowing steady, calm. And then, just like that, I let all the string out and freed the kite. To the West Texas heavens under a full moon, the last vestiges of winter under those sent whirling back to their private universes.

So we sailed up to the sun
Till we found the sea of green
And we lived beneath the waves
In our yellow submarine

Afterwards, some of the group wanted to pilgrimage out to see the Marfa lights. Having been indoctrinated in those mysteries long ago, but only recently having become a Believer, I was up for it. I have a fantasy of someone putting a bar out there, like those blue bars we used to go to in Italy in the 1990’s. A piano, dark blue lighting, a great selection of single malts and grappas. Then a window to the vast unknown in search of those famous lights. But we stood out there in the high desert, shivering, our lone companion a traffic cone that had been placed over the telescope that is used in warmer nights to seek out the origin of those mysterious lights.

Would you believe in a love at first sight
Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time
What do you see when you turn out the light
I can't tell you but I know it's mine,

When I was putting the wines together on a sheet for the dinner I was searching for a way to start a conversation with the people coming to it. One of my dinner companions remarked that he recently had a dinner for 12 people and they discussed the food and the wines. A salon. Yes, of course, I would love to come back and do something like that. But this night I was imagining these five wines as lines from a Beatles Album, the Yellow Submarine, in an effort to strike a match against the imagination and start a little fire of non linear conversation. Alas, it was probably something that was meant for My Universe, perhaps too much of a stretch. Too non linear. How did one of my teachers tell me, “Al, save the imagination for the drawing tablets.”

Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
That grow so incredibly high

My experiment with wine and song having wilted, I consoled myself under that cold and deep desert night with the happiness that other teachers had cultivated a biodynamic rebellion against those who would have me be a square peg in a square hole in a cubicle somewhere in a square building. Of course, we must report back, head up the elevator and slip into the meeting, hoping that someone in that meeting will be receptive to the accounts from the front lines. As long as I don’t make them too poetic. Or out there.

Out there. Out there. As I was driving back the next day to get back to the city and a tasting of Super Tuscans and Brunello (acclimate, acclimate) I found myself wasting time, putting it off. And as I drove, the radio playing Holst’s “The Planets” made it even more difficult to leave, to return. I stopped one more time at the base, this time the traffic cone had a retiree in a Winnebago for company.

Pulling away from the highway out of Alpine, the junction, one to the Big Bend and the other back to the Big City, I had a visceral reaction. I felt sick to my stomach, maybe it was the huevos rancheros?

As I left the wilderness, returning to the power line that I always came back to, I promised myself to come back here again, for a week or more, to camp, to hike, to clear out the Big City. I really, really love the desert, it is my Tuscany.

One, two, three, four
Can I have a little more?
five, six, seven eight nine ten I love you.

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

Lyrics by The Beatles

"Occhi Spalanchi Sul Mondo"

This is such a great time to be on the wine trail. There are many good wines at all levels, from so many places. There are new people coming into the field with their ideas and energy. There is a confluence with the world of food and art and music, along with philosophy, economics. So many areas that touch each other. There is the fun and comedic aspect (my gosh, we laugh so much these days). And while we have some naysayers, those snarky little blue ticks that prey upon the ledges, leeching blood and energy, I reckon it’s all in the game. This week has been a good week for the forces of light and good and love and wine.

It began when I started reading Frances Mayes newest book, Every Day in Tuscany, Seasons of an Italian Life.

I wanted to look at some of her recipes, as I was doing a wine dinner with local Chef, Jim “Sevy” Severson, of Sevy’s fame. We were doing a Tuscan evening, and I thought I’d get a little inspiration from Frances’ latest book.

After several minutes scanning the recipes and a few pages, I realized exactly what I needed to do for the wine dinner. Simply, tell the stories of the people who made the wine. We had people attending who have traveled to Italy, so many times. But the more I go to Italy and stay there, the more I come to realize how little I know. In effect when one of the nasty commenters on local food blogs throws me in the grease for my stand on Italian food in these parts, they are right. But for the wrong reasons. My lament isn’t that Italian food is impossible to find outside of Italy. It’s more that the philosophy is hard to find in the kitchen. My aunt had it, so did my grandmothers. And for sure they used local ingredients. Would they call their food Italian? Would I not call it delicious? And when I go into a place, whether it be Italian or French or Thai, my hope is that there is someone in the kitchen, thinking consciously of what they are doing with their ingredients.

Last night at a local wine bar, where the most amazing array of bottles kept showing up at the bar where we were sitting, a local Doctor, David Ellis, who has a passion for wine and food, stated it so simply. “My best meal ever in this town" he said, “was from Anthony Bombaci at Nana. It was a sea bass, seared in olive oil with salt and pepper.” No more than five ingredients. Oh, yeah, you can find it. Anywhere.

Sevy was proud of his menu; he took me back in the kitchen and showed me the bistecca in preparation. The evening would be an homage to the brightness of Tuscan cooking with wines to match. I was in heaven.


The next day, a package arrived in the mail. One Vintage, a word and picture book about live in a Los Olivos vineyard. Chris Jones has found her own Bramasole in the Central Coast of California, and her sweet little book is a Valentine to all grape growers. Thanks so much, Chris, what a joy.

Meanwhile, people struggle daily, with their realities. More than one restaurant I have been in this past week has had way fewer than needed people in those seats. There is nothing more challenging than to be in a place with good food and wine and have it be empty. And then, there are those places that are so darn busy, three-deep at the bar at 9 o’clock on a Saturday night. Hopeful signs, but still survival of the fittest. No room for mistakes in this economy. Hope, alone, won't keep the lights burning.

Last night at that busy wine bar, in an arts district with opera and symphony overflow, people didn’t seem to be anxious. Two nights before, though as I walked around the area, the handful of restaurants didn’t have enough people in all of them to fill one of them. Maybe last night people were just ready to get out and charge it on their already overcharged credit cards, in spite of the consequences on Monday. I don’t know. But I do know there is some trepidation.

I was in the mood for a Savennieres. I’m often in the mood for this wine, but last night I realized, once again, why I love that wine. It followed a young Gruner, an aged Puligny-Montrachet Les Pucelles and an even older Mazy-Chambertin. But this wine, the 2004 from Nicholas Joly is the little pillow I love to lay my head on. It was creamy, it had an edge, it was sweet, it was savory. It was minerally, it was salty, it was lively, it was mellow. I ordered a cup of butterscotch pudding to appease my sweet tooth. I have had a week where so many wine and food matches have seemed like they were perfect (all unplanned). Maybe this is the week the palate gods tell me my thoughts about such things are erroneous. After all, the Blue Meanie Blogarazzi think I’m full of crap, maybe the wine gods agree. If that’s the case, so be it. I’ll just hop in my submarine and find another wine tasting, putting on my perennial millennial shirt and hat and facing the next flight - occhi spalanchi sul mondo – eyes wide open on the world.

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

2004 Brunello Prices Plummet

Note to Italy, to Tuscany and to Montalcino. This is just the beginning. Brace yourself.

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

An Italian and a Jew walk into a saloon in Texas

From the “I knew it was too good to last” department

After a bit of travel between the East and the West coast, I am finally sleeping in my own bed. I have a favorite pillow which is really ragged. But the best dreams come when it is under my head.

Joey the Weasel, aka Joe Strange Eye and Tony the Bone wanted a “meeting.” It seems they boys back home have been missing their Italian wine guy. They think I have been getting a little too uppity. They wanted to put me back in my place. So I agreed to a time and a place.

They were just coming out of team meetings, so I waited for them, making my rounds. The place where I work has many buildings and a slew of different type folks. It’s always fun to just take a stroll around the buildings, see who is there, talk to them. And what they tell me, the things people will say. The wind up is, one can get a real sense of where a company, an industry, a trend is going, by getting a sampling of the thoughts of the folk who live there. Message received.

When I found them, Joey and Tony were huddled over a computer screen like it was a fire pit at SXSW. On further examination, neither had brought their reading glasses. They were both blind as bats.

Tony has this pizza place in the burbs he is working on and he wanted to let me know our Italian section was about to be invaded by the Southern Hemisphere. Tony likes easy money. I pretty well let him know that those pictures I took of him in 1981 were still in the safe deposit box, but that didn’t have to be a forever kind of thing. “Leave the Malbecs, take the Chianti,” were my parting words. Message received.

Strange Eye, that was a different story. He’s just spread thin, lots of business, things are booming. “Ace, the Italian wine business is out of control. It’s like the 1980’s. I just wish I was 20 years younger and 40 pounds lighter.” We kibitzed, got a few things on paper. It’s always good to talk to the guys on the street. You know, the schlubs who make things happen on the ground level? No corner office prognosticating with them, just the facts, Ma’am. Back to work boys.

As I was heading out the building, a young manager approaches me. “We’ve got to talk. That fancy new pizza place in the burbs (what is it with pizza places and the burbs?) is driving me nuts. I go in there, spend money, drop my card and the owner chumps me off. I need your help. What can we do to turn him around?” The young manager is intense, he stands upright, a good sign for someone who will be in the game for at least ten more years. We can use these kinds of folks at the battles edge. “What are you doing? Let’s go there right now and talk to him,” I suggest. “Scheduling conflict. No can do.” Hell, I’ll go there myself.

I get back to my office, drop my gear and grab “Louie”. Louie is old school. He wears a trench coat. On cold days he has a crumpled fedora that he pulls out, like some kind of show-and-tell at wise guy school. He looks like a punch-drunk hit man. Fancies himself a ladies man. But he knows the game. “Louie, come with me, I need to go talk to a guy who’s got that old time saloon above his wood burning pizzeria.

20 minutes later we walk into the place. The owner comes up to us.” Is everything OK? You guys look serious.” The owner is a sweet guy, but far from a pushover. But he’s always shot straight with me. The server escorted Louie to our table and I chatted with the owner. “Ah Vito, I’ve just missed eating your wood burning pizza. A week in New York, a week in Napa, you know, I long to drink my wines with your food.”

As I join my partner, I notice they put him at the table facing the door. Two things you never want to do in the restaurant business, put a Sicilian with his back to the door and put a Jew with his back to an oven. After musical chairs we got down to business.

755 words in, I know too damn long again. If you’re still reading, you want the end. The rest have gone on to Twitterland. So here goes. The pitch.

Thirty minutes into the meal, after we’ve slammed down a couple of ice cold Patron Silvers and were heading past the better part of a bottle of red, Vito comes up to me. Vito and I are neighbors, we hear the same sirens at night, we’ve pitched our tents in the same vale. “How’s the food, Ace, you like my menu?” I could feel Louie itching to answer, his finger on the trigger. But I took the shot. “Vito, everything is lovely, but I‘d love to see more of my babies on that menu. I’m not the type to ask you what it’s going to take. I’m just telling you I don’t want to walk out of her today and not solve this problem. So, what’s it going to take?”

Louie couldn’t resist. We were being convivial, so I guess he figured a little Catskill humor would play in this saloon, which was once a speakeasy. “Vito, I think what Ace is saying is take my wines, please.” Yeah, Lou, I am. But in a subtler more Sicilian style.

Vito excuses himself to tend to a problem in the oven. Lou eyes him warily. Minutes later, a duo of espressos and a platter of honey laced focaccia appear. And then Vito returns. “I was going to give you my list, but then I remember who you are and I didn’t want you to take it the wrong way. You’re not an errand boy sent by a grocery clerk to collect a bill. I just need two things.” And he came close to me and whispered them in my ear.
Message received.

On the way back to the office, I made a call and by the time I got back to my desk, the problem was solved. It was neat. It was clean. It was legal. I could tell you what it was, but I imagine the occasional competitor reading this post and I’m not about to give them my 30 years of experience wrapped up in the coda. Let’s just say respect is the key ingredient in that pie, laced with just the right amount of follow-up.

And that’s what the real world is all about, not the lavish wine dinners in San Francisco or the vertical tastings in the Upper East Side. The nitty gritty saloon brawl battles that help keep my world safe for Italian wine. Bona Notte y’all.

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

Piero Antinori Interview: Tuscan Tradition and Napa Innovation

Just a short one today, this time from the Silverado wine trail. It has been one heck of a week, meeting Frances Mayes, seeing Margrit Mondavi again after all these years and being around all these great wine writers at the Napa Symposium. Today I caught up with my old friend Piero Antinori, who was in town (St. Helena, CA) for Premiere Napa Valley. Piero and his family have the Antica wine estate in Napa Valley.

Attached is a 4 minute video in which Piero gives some interesting history of the Italian wine scene in the 1960’s and moves through the Super Tuscan phenomenon (Piero was one of the main architects) all the way to his involvement in the New world and wines in Napa Valley. When I get home I will edit better, but I just wanted to get up this piece with one of the icons of Italy, a gentleman and a real pleasure to sit down with and sip on his wine, from anywhere in the world.

Pop a good bottle of wine tonight and tell the ones near you that you love and appreciate them. Believe me, we all don’t hear enough of those good words. Cheers!

written and Flip cam video by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

The Remedial Expat

Class of '73

It was a sunny day in St. Helena, after months of the dark and frigid torrent of winter back home. It should have tinged my disposition, but the blinds to my soul were still lowered. Maybe it was the phone calls. Maybe it was that mean look the workshop teacher shot at me. However this chapter was going to play out, I had to get away from the people around me, not infect them with this taint.

I trudged up to my room, waving off the man in the golf cart who wanted to take me up the hill. No, I would grind my knees on one more hill, maybe it would force the bleak out of me.

Inside my room I returned a few phone calls. My son isn’t working these days and is wedged behind an avalanche of his own winter. We were in two canyons, yelling out into the heavens, but we couldn’t help each other. I could only hope the search team found one of us soon.

Another call to a friend, asking me where he should take his wife to dinner in Dallas. After a few suggestions I thought to turn the question back to him. “I’m in St. Helena, where should I go eat?” He always knew the little secret spots away from the tourists. “Go to Cook. You can get a nice glass of Falanghina and reset your Italian soul.” While it wasn’t quite the buzzing sound of the helicopters sending down a ladder, I figured it was a possible way out of the chasm. So I grabbed myself up and headed to Main Street.

I wasn’t that hungry. I haven’t been hungry for months. I was in the process of eliminating food lust from my daily activities. Not an easy thing for one involved in the wine business. But somehow that was a battle that I was winning.

Inside the little café there was a counter. Perfect for the solitary diner. I took my seat as close to the kitchen hoping the warmth of the stove might sear off my rotten mood. Pre-op.

The glass of Falanghina appeared, like the last rays of refracted light before the sun sets. Getting warmer. A simple menu took the complications out of decisions. And then, Frank Capra took over the rest of the evening.

Looking up at the back bar I saw a bottle, an apparition, from a friend’s winery in Tuscany. It was a large format bottle and was probably set up there for decoration. Querciavalle, 1985, Chianti Classico. Lovely wine from a family that makes wine in the way Frances Mayes could appreciate. The large bottle was a totem from the wine god, “We hear you. We’re sending someone. Soon.”

As the soup arrived, a remedy of cannellini bean and kale, a woman appeared next to me. Her regular seat was taken and I offered to give her mine. But she was well liked by the people who ran the place and they soon made her place ready. I really didn’t know what to make of it; I still had frost burn on the edges and my glasses were foggy. But it didn’t take too long to realize that the teacher had come to have dinner with her student.

All day I had struggled in classes, and at one point when the instructor shot me this glance of disdain, I recoiled so deep inside, it was a shock. I couldn’t look the instructor in the face, couldn’t take another look like that. My crime? I had read something I had written in class, and even though I had prefaced it with an “OK, here goes, I might be going out on a limb with this one,” the instructor made the decisive cut. She hated me. Class over. Close the books.

But that was in the past, and the soup and the wine were restoring me. And this town’s high school teacher was sitting next to me talking me back into the world of the living.

It wasn’t so much what she said as just the simple California dialect we could speak in. I was after all, from this world, originally, these were my tribal places before the fancy people from the East coast showed up with their ideas and their agendas. I didn’t need an extension class as much as I needed remediation. Along with a delicious secondo, poulet au vin, that is what the teacher did, in a kind and simple way.

We were talking about St. Helena; she had lived here all her life and had taught many of the winemakers who were now living in the million dollar bungalows and making the wines that had transformed her town. She had a goblet filled with ice and Coors Light. She looked up to a bottle of jug wine and told me a little story of several of her students and those jug wines. She was coaxing me out from behind the glacier, I could feel the thaw. The wine in the sauce was helping.

I thought of my wife, Liz, who had passed away on this same day nine years ago, part of the reason for my dark mood. But then there was this kind, sweet person who didn’t want to show me up and make herself feel superior at her student’s expense. She just wanted to drink her beer in her ice, eat her chicken in wine and break the monotony by talking to another person. She was better than the wine and the soup and the chicken, for me, she restored me back to hope, brought me out of the cave, all by simply being compassionate.

This week I have been around some amazing people. The women among them that I have met, Margrit Mondavi and Frances Mayes, are what we call in Italian “mitico”, legendary. And there have been the new young up-and-coming ones this week on the wine trail, Molly from Seattle and Whitney from Los Angeles, future M.F.K Fishers and Jancis Robinsons for their generation. But tonight this California expat couldn’t have asked for a better night out than with the dear old high school teacher with her remedy of kindness.

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

The Last Gift

Tonight, I have taken a little detour from the wine trail, and if you indulge me, it is time to remember. Every February 14th and 17th I cross over two events, the birthday of my lost love, Liz, and the date she left us. It has been nine years and so hard to believe we have gone on without her. But life is exactly that way. Not selfish, just survival.

I met Francis Mayes last night, who single-handedly brought Cortona onto the world stage. Nine years ago, during the last Christmas in 2000, Liz gave me a book by Francis Mayes, the last gift she would ever give me. Books, in those last days, were our companions from a death soon to be delivered with slow and painful determination.

Death isn’t neat and the aftermath isn’t clean or quick. When I pull an older Italian wine out of my closet, something from the 1960’s or 1970’s, I think about the hands that touched those wines, hands that are now lifeless. And though those hearts no longer beat, the wine in the bottles carries the lifeblood of those souls who put their lives into the grape and the sun and the wine.

Yesterday, I made a trip to the Tokalon vineyard for a lesson in pruning. As I was cutting parts of the vine back, I thought about sections of my life that have been pruned, sometimes in extreme measures. Always, the vine lives and gives back energy to grow another season. Does a vine cry or is it merely the milk of the life force that a good pruner brings forth? The cycle of the vine and the days of a life are intertwined in their collective destinies of survival and output.

In California, it is spring. Last week in Texas we had a foot of snow, in a day. The week before in New York, there was wind and bitter cold. While winter still wrestles east of the Rockies, spring washes up on shore in California, and fields of mustard bathe the dormant vines in golden light.

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

Cacciatore-22

This week, while preparing for a Napa visit, I got this email from a winemaker inviting me to taste their new Cabernet. Under 300 cases, a grower since the late 1980’s, Oakville appellation, all good markers. And then I looked at the price. At first I thought, not bad, about $22 a bottle. Then I saw that was just for the shipping. The actual asking price for this bottle of Napa wine was well over $100. Excuse me, but do they not get the news in Napa? I’m quite impatient with this denial of a reality that many have to deal with everyday on the streets of America, but for some reason the winemakers in Burgundy, Bordeaux, Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa seem to think they are immune from. [insert soap-box]

We’re beating folks up over a $14 Soave and a $12 Montepulciano and then we run into this – I don’t know how to respond. And it’s going on it Italy too.

Earlier this month at the Vino2010 wine event in NY, I was tasting Tuscan wines. One fellow pulls me aside to sample his Rosso di Montalcino. The owner is a wealthy young man whose family sold a great estate and he is building his empire. Nice young man – good businessman. The wine is a little modern, but not off-putting. And then the price. Retailing for around $32-36- a Rosso di Montalcino, in my world? Come on folks, that dog won't hunt.

Example: I get a call from a restaurant owner in the suburbs. They are hunting for a Brunello, an Amarone and a Barolo for their list – seems a lot of folks from New York and Californian have moved to their areas and are asking for those wines. “Do you have anything for, say, $18? I’ve seen an Amarone at Trader Joe's for under $20 the last time I was in California.” That’s the bloody reality of these times.

I know the wine he is talking about. But I doubt if it is an authentic Amarone. Look, it’s just too expensive to produce a wine like an Amarone and sell it off a retail shelf in San Francisco for $19.99.

This is the quandary the Napa Valley producer has – being able to compete in a market with wines from South America, South Africa and Australia. Even as people who usually buy those wines are trading down (from $20 to $10, etc.) for the Napa Valley winemaker, one who has been growing grapes for a generation, what is their next move? Discount? Find all the wealthy people who will buy those 300 cases at $100+ a bottle? Hold onto it until (if?) the market bounces back? Keep hunting?

Are we in the winter of this current economic decline, or is it only Indian Summer? Do we have another 18 months, or is there something else going on, like reducing the consumerism we all have been taught is good (for the GPD)? I do not like telling wine producers their wine is over-priced for the market. They tend to want to shoot the messenger – it’s like telling a parent their child is ugly. No one wants to hear that or be the bearer of the bad news.

But that is exactly where we are right now – we are dug in – how many people do you know who are trying to recalibrate with lower pay, lesser health insurance? [stepping off soap-box now]

This week, life handed me chicken (not rabbit), so last night I made pollo alla cacciatora. Seeing as today is Valentines Day, I figured I’d make a whole pile of it and eat on it for a few days. Anyone who knows me knows this is a special day, as it was the birthday of my dear wife Liz, who died in 2001. I still miss her very much. There is no closure after a year – or ever. Loved ones depart, but they never go away. And why would we want them to? My co-conspirator in food and wine knows this – she lost her man to a heart attack in 1998. Maybe that’s why I always make so much food. Last night I cooked for all of us – even those who weren’t here to enjoy it with us – and opened a bottle of 2001 Barbaresco (one that I can no longer afford) in remembrance of Liz. The food and wine was memorable – but not as sweet as the memories of love, lost and found, along life’s trail.

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

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Manducatis with the Masters

It all started with Carmen. Our night with Anthony at Manducatis was so much fun, that I wanted to share the energy of the place with my friends. So I started inviting folks. First, Paul, then Denise and Juan Pablo and then Ronn and Hajni and finally, Damon. Amongst us we had a master sommelier (Damon), a Master Sommelier and Master of Wine (Ronn), a couple of young wine buyers (Denise and Juan Pablo) who are also a couple, Hajni, whose family makes wine in Hungary, and Paul and me. We could probably handle a wine list like Manducatis.

Walking out of the Waldorf-Astoria, I noticed a stretch limo, long enough for seven. With a little unsuccessful bargaining (he wanted $70- I offered $50 – no deal) we walked a couple of blocks to Grand Central Station to catch the #7 subway to Queens. Two stops later we piled out of the subway and ambled towards the fabled restaurant.

Once settled I asked for Anthony and two wine lists. Handing the list to Damon and Ronn, I just wanted to see the looks on their faces when they went through it. Ronn is the publisher of Restaurant Wine and Damon criss-crosses the country, working with sommeliers. These guys know their way around a wine list. On Ronn’s website his bio reads, “Master of Wine (1991) and Master Sommelier (1986) — and was the first person in the world to hold both titles. He remains the only American ever to pass the entire Master of Wine exam on the first attempt.”

Damon came to earn his credentials a little later in life. Simply said, we were in the presence of wine world royalty. I know they are just human, and they put their pants on the same way. Around me, they never act with any degree of entitlement. Here’s the crux of it to me: We have these gents like Ronn and Damon, who are eminently qualified (and certified) wine experts – nicer guys you wouldn’t want to meet. And they share their information in an inclusive way, none of that secret handshake hooey. Then we have these new media wunderkinds, maybe they’ve been blogging about wine, part-time for a couple of years – what are their qualifications, their expertise? They get a few hits, some recognition, the bright lights and they begin to believe all the stuff that’s written about them. Maybe Andy Blue was on to something. Maybe I'm just not buying into the swagger of the new media muezzins. Maybe, just bring back nice.

OK, op-ed over. On to the wines.

Ronn was favoring a Tuscan and a Piedmont red. The Tuscan was the 1999 Ricasoli Casalferro and the Piedmont red was the Oddero 97 Barbaresco. Damon was looking at the 1998 Nino Negri Sfursat Cinque Stelle and a 97 Brunello, the Friggiali. Oddly, there were no white wines listed.

Anthony seemed busy that night, so we didn’t want to bother him and just ordered from the list. That was probably a mistake, as this wine list is his baby and he probably would have wanted to steer us a little in one direction or another. It is my sense that he knows where all these wines are at in their development, and probably because of his closeness to the table and opening wine bottles all the time. His expertise most likely ranks a tad beyond any of is at the table that night.

Not to say there weren’t those of us who had thoughts and opinions about wine.

Paul, I found out, really thought he didn’t like Nebbiolo, but the Cinque Stelle won him over. I believe he even came to like the Oddero, which was showing very well. It was a 97, usually not my favorite vintage from Italy, but the wine was handled well in the cellar. It also didn't seem to suffer excess ripeness that marred many of the 97’s I have tasted. The Casalferro was my least favorite, and seemed to be a slight disappointment at the table, as it wasn’t finished. Seven people and four bottles of wine shouldn’t have been a big deal. Sangiovese and Merlot – probably not the way of the future for Italy.

The Friggiali was a wine I had no experience with. Pretty label. Maybe too ripe for me. And oaky. Frankly, it was starting to resemble an over-ripe red from Napa and we all know that is not a trajectory for Napa or Montalcino in these times. Leaner, less oakier, would have been more to my preference. But it was also under $70 on a wine list for a wine that is almost thirteen years old. So really no reason to complain. Ok to rent, but not to buy, my dad would say.


The real deal of the night was getting Damon and Ronn together and watching their vine-minds sparring with each other. And of course, the whole party was just about as agreeable and happy to be together as I have seen in a fortnight. I could go on, but we all know I over-write these posts. The notes I got from folks in the party afterward was enough of a reinforcement that this night, which I longed to put together friends to drink wonderful old wines and kick back in Queens, well that was the reward enough for a week spent working and breathing on the wine trail in Old New York.

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