Our Sangiovese: It Will Be Wonderful Brunello

Montalcino Report: Millenovecentosettanta

“Excuse me, do you know where I could find a vegetarian restaurant?” I asked the person in my pensione in Florence. You would have thought I was asking them where the nearest insane asylum was. That was Tuscany in the 1970’s. But eventually I came across a macrobiotic mensa run by Episcopalians, and was able to eat the diet I had chosen.

In those days, to choose to be a vegetarian was an oddity. Italy was coming out of the haze of a terrible war, the economy was still in shambles from a world recession and here was this American kid asking to pay money to eat food without meat.

But deep inside the country this wouldn’t be as difficult to discover as it was in the cities. In the country, one could make a meal of polenta, some wild greens tossed with oil and vinegar and some salt, maybe a piece of cheese thrown on the spit and in the fall some mushrooms, roasted. And the hearty, rustic wines of the time would also nourish, albeit in a serviceable and not very elegant manner. This was the reputation of wines from Italy, rustic and simple. And often undrinkable to the connoisseurs, the French wine lovers and the new Americans who were multiplying in their affluence. Tuscany was tired of being poor and downtrodden. And Tuscany, at the time, was the spearhead of the Italian wine movement towards more polish, focused, drinkable wines, mainly red.

In the months when we stayed in Tuscany, and Umbria, we would backpack from town to town, often staying in the country. One period, during harvest, as we passed by Siena on our way to a hilltop town, Montalcino, we saw old people, young people, whole villages, working in the vineyards, harvesting.

“What kind of wine is this, Chianti?” I would ask. “No, signore, Sangiovese.” Up in the village they would call it another name, Brunello, from Montalcino.

I was able to buy a quarter of a liter of the house red, and it often was the low of the low. But it would usually be refreshing, slightly prickly, not too dark, and it made me hungry when I drank it.

I had a name from a friend in Florence, who gave me an address if I should ever be in the little hillside town. “They make a wine there that has a great reputation in the area, but the people keep to themselves. We can barely understand their dialect. They are protective. Ever since the war they have burrowed into their hillside. The keep all the good wine for themselves.” I heard this often. It was as if the town was inside a protective layer, keeping progress and modernity, and more war from ever getting in.

I looked this friend of a friend up, went to his property and looked around. Chickens were running around, and several dogs were resting by the doorstop. I could hear people talking; one was singing a tune in a rhythmic manner. The melody was hypnotic. I knocked on the door, but no one answered, so I walked around to the barn. It was made of stone and held all manner of farm implements, machinery, a wine press, some ancient barrels, large. Further in the dark were concrete vats, not too large, home made looking objects.

Deeper into the structure I heard movement. It was October; the air in the early afternoon was starting to cool earlier. The sun was deeper down the horizon. I had a moment of worry that I was in the wrong place, that they might think me an interloper, or a trespasser, and punish me for my transgression. Those fears were never to be realized, thankfully.

What I did eventually encounter, was this friend of a friend, who was waist high in one of the large tanks, with grapes and juice and bees and flies and the hum of Bacchus setting the pace of the work. “Come in here, take off your clothes, get in and help me, please.” He pleaded friendly and not in a threatening way. Here I am not even knowing this person and he’s asking me to take off my clothes and get in a vat of sluice to help him.

“What is this?” I asked him. “What grapes are these? What wine is this becoming?” I asked him as I climbed in, my young, lean body climbing into the container to help him complete the work.

“This? It is our Sangiovese. The elders call it Brunello. It will be wonderful if we can get the work done.”

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

Remembering Herman Leonard

Too marvelous for words


New Orleans, summertime, pre-Katrina, a crowded Italian restaurant, Maximo’s, and I’m sitting at the bar. The owner, Jason, is pouring Champagne, Krug, from magnums to a large table and topping off my glass and another fellow's whom he affectionately calls Herman. Just a couple of guys sitting at a bar, drinking Champagne, waiting for the night to develop. And in New Orleans, anything could happen. I notice Herman has a little point and shoot camera with him and we start talking about wine, jazz and shooting.

I immediately liked him, he reminded me of a gypsy-freelance photographer that I hung out with in the early 1970’s. But Herman had it together; he succeeded, he had that special vision.

That night, on a steamy New Orleans summer night, it was just the two of us, having a drink and talking about stuff. I knew his work, lived with it whenever I sat in the restaurant. They filled the place. Ella, Duke, Bird, Tony Bennett, Art Blakey, Miles, Dizzy, man I would stare at Lester Young’s hat and coke and cigarette and would swear that cigarette was still burning. Herman took a picture of Charlie Parker in the late 1940’s that was a technical masterpiece. Low light, hand held and detail to the micron. I would stare at Bird’s suit; it had a pattern that was mesmerizing. I loved, loved, loved his work.

Look, there are plenty of sites out there with information about Herman, much more comprehensive than mine. He was a friend of a friend, and we would share a glass of wine together from time to time, that was all. I used to stay at a hotel near his house before Katrina wrecked the neighborhood.

Reggie Nadelson wrote," When I got the news that he had died, I looked at his photographs on my wall and I recalled what Tony Bennett said when he heard Frank Sinatra was no longer with us: ‘I don’t have to believe that.’"

I loved how he took an art form, jazz, and made art from the folks who made the art. And he took us along with him on this historic journey of a uniquely American music form.

One night Herman was dining with Doc Cheatham when I walked into Maximo’s. Doc had a gig in New Orleans and was getting an early dinner (9 PM). Folks would come by and pay their respects to Doc, Herman was shooting, his young assistant by his side. Good times.

I’ve been lucky to know some great photographers in my life. I collect photography and shoot almost every day for the last 45 years, ever since I was a young kid. I have an old childhood bud in California who is a great collector, one of the top in the world, for photography. But my takeaway from Herman, and the treasured body of his life’s work, is that there’s seeing and there’s living. Herman saw, but Herman lived a wonderful American life.

Happy trails, Herman, thanks for sharing your passion, your work and your images with us on this pretty little planet we all call home.

The best is yet to come....

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

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

This is the moment we live for. Hotter than hot, slower than slow, this is the time when one goes out with a bag of Italian wine and tries to convert the souls over to our way.

My computer was down, I lost all my contact info and forgot an important 3:30 staff training at a hotel. The phone rang at 3:15. “Just calling to remind you of our training,” my hopeful saleslady cheerfully reported. “Holy crap,” I yelped and sprang from my desk, running out the building.

Adrenaline pumping in a car at registering 103°F, pre-rush hour, 12 miles away, man I was embarrassed. My little left toe tingling, the result of a too aggressive trim job with underpowered reading glasses. Huge pain from one of the smallest parts of the body. But pressing on, darting in and out of traffic, trying to get there without getting a ticket.

3:35, a text announces, “we’re in the lower dining room." I go to the upper banquet room, running into a group of white American businessmen and women registering for a convention. Finally someone calls my name, one of the angels in our company; she guides me down to the proper place, to a table of young men and women.

“I’m out here a thousand miles from my home,” the words from Dylan searing my skull. Three wines, a Vernaccia, A Gavi and a Fiano. 15 minutes to give birth to the beauty that these wines held, two of them forgotten on a wine list, locked in a cellar, waiting for the moment when that precious liquid, so arduously gathered by the hands of the farmers, would be released in a glass.

The Vernaccia, a 2008. Would a 2009 have been more welcome? But what about the older white wines? Have we treated wines like women, preferring only young and perky ones? Isn’t there a time to appreciate a mature wine, like we do a mature woman?

The Vernaccia. She was subtle, her aromas were delicate, a little sting of sweat, a pinch of tropical flower under the ear. A kiss of honey, a lick of butter and a bite of sharp fruit. Perfect wine to go with the perfect selling day, the hottest day of the year.

The next wine, a Gavi, a 2006. Someone had forgotten her charms, shelved her for a more seductive unoaked Chardonnay or a fashionable Pinot Gris from Oregon. No doubt. I was familiar with the 2006 and was a bit worried. But the first sensation showed that wine was healthy. She had been well kept.

This was a wine I had first had in the early 1990’s, sitting in the restaurant of a friend's aunt, on the Adriatic. She brought us a plate of linguine with small clams, simple, a little oil and parsley and salt. The wine matched well and a memory was made. Today, almost 20 years later, I recast the wine and the story, weaving a way to encourage the young servers to bring this pretty lady out of the cold and into the hearts of their customers. I want to go back to that restaurant and drink that wine up before she passes beyond an uncertain and muddled age.

The last wine, a Fiano. We didn’t sell it now, although we might have sold it when this wine, a 2001, was made available to the restaurant. And who knows, we might sell it in the future, having just been in a meeting the week before with the importer, who had gotten his foot jammed in the door and wasn’t going to pull it back before we gave him 10-20-30 minutes.

But the wine. The Fiano. 2001. The color was perfect for an older Fiano. Light. Great cellaring. The nine year old wine had wonderful development for a wine from a good vintage and a grape that can age. Lithe, tanned, taut and worldly, well traveled and evocative. Not the over-the-top voluptuous in-your-face type. A wine with an independent nature, a lover of history and the arts, a self-starter. Salty, sweet, bitter, tropical, long, grazing the tongue but leaving no marks. And in an instant she is gone.

And just like that, three wines, fifteen minutes, and it was all over. From the initial rush to get there in a hot car, to the final act, I found myself in a cold sweat and heading back to the office, now in rush hour, to make a meeting. I’m loving it, pain and all, this summer surge towards an uncertain holiday season. Bring it on. I am ready.

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

Bursting the Bubble

From the dog days of summer department

Photo by Teresa Rafidi

After a week of trauma and high drama I am resting and content to stay on my little isola, my island at home, with a pool and water, and wine, and tons and tons of crap. It seems after so many decades on earth, I have accumulated too much of everything. So today, along with my physical purge and cleanse, I am also purging and cleansing my world of useless, repetitive belongings. Not useless to someone else, I hope, but for my needs, enough is too much. Some of these thangs gotta go.

It seems we can never get enough of anything in America, including endless blogging about this wine or that wine. Enough already! Let’s go sell something.

I don’t have anything else for you. I ‘m taking the rest of the day off. Move along now, there’s nothing to see here….

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

Here Today, Gone Tonnato

From a day in the "life" of a wine salesman fool department

5:40 AM – Wake up, look at the clock. Not 6:45 yet, but up. It's 88°F outside.

6:45 – Alarm goes off.

7:30 – Emails rolling in.

8:00 – Text from supplier, asking if we are going to meet them at first appointment.

8:30 - Call to my Aunt Jo, who is 94 today. phone is busy.

8:40 – Call to salesman- I will pick up the vendor and the winemaker at 9:30 and meet him at first appointment at 10:00 and then take them to the next stop.

9:00 – Stop for a coffee because am out at home.

9:20 – Sitting outside it’s already 93°F.

9:22 – Dump half the coffee – it’s too hot to drink anyway.

9:23 – Text from supplier, winemaker is going to be 15 minutes late.

9:24 – Take a picture of a storefront.

9:25 – Arrive at hotel and wait outside.

9:45 – Supplier meets me outside. Winemaker isn’t here yet. Talk. More talk, sitting outside hotel in the shade, where it’s only 89°F.

9:55 – Winemaker arrives. He hasn’t had coffee yet. We are 15-20 minutes from first appointment with 5 minutes to get there.

10:08 – Call from salesman. “Where are you?” he asks. “Two blocks away,” I lie.

10:12 – First appointment, introductions and tasting of eight wines from Piedmont, six of them red, five of them Nebbiolo.

10:40 – Meeting goes well. Next appointment 11:15 – we are 20 minutes away.

10:45 – Stop at another coffee shop for the supplier and the winemaker, who haven’t had their coffee yet.

10:50 – Call from another importer who tells me his best selling Pinot Grigio has new owners, but the old owners own the trademark to the name. Brainstorm over new name.

10:55 - Call to my Aunt Jo, who is 94 today. phone is busy.

11:00 – Importer calls me back. It seems they can use the name until the end of the year and still get the wine and then the owners will pull the plug. 20+ years of working a brand goes down the drain.

11:02 – On the road to next appointment.

11:16 – Call from another salesman, “Where are you?” he asks. “Two blocks away,” I lie.

11:18 – Meeting with next account. Friendly folks, a jolly buyer who loves soccer and a sommelier who loves to blog. It’s all good.

11:45 – Finish appointment – hand supplier and winemaker over to salesman. He has a farm truck that is 4 feet off the ground. I worry how my not so tall winemaker is going to get into the cab of the truck. It is now 95°F.

12:15 PM – Arrive halfway across town at a Caribbean place for a 12:30 lunch appointment with the top chef. 15 minutes early. I spill water all over me in the car and it looks like I wet myself. It is now 99°F, in the shade.

12:30 – Lunch with chef. I order the Cuban (sandwich) and water. No fries. Arroz moros instead.

1:30 – Back to office. I have a car full of wine, a wine dinner tonight with the winemaker, and work back at my desk. Redoing a list of Italian wines, following up on previous calls and projects, and “checking in” with my colleagues. The temperature is now 103°F.

1:45 - Call to my Aunt Jo, who is 94 today. phone is busy.

3:30 - Walk down to first floor to photograph our mixologist for a blog post. She hands me three drinks she has made for a Grand Marnier cocktail challenge and asks me to taste them, tell me what I think of them.

4:30 – Looked up and saw the afternoon disappeared. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and down it. Look out the window. A package arrives at my cubicle space. Parts for a computer. I unpack and condense the packaging and set aside the recyclable parts for the bin at home (we don’t have a big enough one at work).

4:40 - Call to my Aunt Jo, who is 94 today. Finally picks up.

4:41 - Run out mail a package. The temperature is now 108°F.

5:15 – I have to gather the supplier at 5:30 for the wine diner which starts at 6:30 halfway across town. Down the staircase, with a briefcase, a camera and other packages I feel a sharp twitch on my left side near my chest. As it get down the stairs in the parking garage the pain is getting more intense. I cannot breathe in too well. I try to stay calm.

5:22 – Selt-belted in the car, Air conditioning blasting high, the temperature in the garage says it is now 105°F. My left side is in pain, but I don’t think (or hope) it is a heart thing. I try to put my earphone (for the phone) in but it keeps falling out. I almost back up into a pillar in the garage. My heart rate is steady. The pain is increasing. I am getting nervous.

5:30 – I call Kim, more afraid of her than anything I’ve got. She lost her last guy to a heart attack and I don’t want her to get pissed at me because I didn’t listen to the signs. As she is talking to me, my supplier and winemaker pile into the car. Rush hour traffic is murder; the temperature now says 107°F. I hang up with Kim, as I don’t want to worry my car mates.

5:40 – I explain to my car mates that I am going to get them to the wine dinner and if I don’t feel better when we get there I will need to go do something about it. The winemaker looks upset; the supplier gets on the phone and starts swearing in French.

5:50 – Another importer friend calls me about a meeting on Monday. I have an earphone that is stuck nine yards up my ear, a sharp searing pain in my chest, a supplier and a winemaker in my car heading onto a freeway at rush hour; with a deadline to be somewhere and motorcyclist commuters are swerving in and out of traffic. Oh boy.

6:15 – We get to the wine dinner destination and I drop off my companions. I get back into the car, take off my tie, and call Kim back. “Should I go to the ER or a Doc-in-the-Box?” she was heading out to yoga, but decided not to. “You go to the Doc-in-the-Box where we took Renee. If you are worse off, they will call the ER and expedite your entry into the hospital. Go now!”

6:28 – On the surface streets at rush hour with commuters who have been cooped up in office downtown all day and the temperature is holding at 108°F.

6:40 – I walk in the Doc-in-the-Box. The pain is really intense now, but I am not panicking. I cannot blow my nose, sneeze or breathe heavily. I need to blow my nose. I need to pee. I am really uncomfortable now. And the desk lady hands me a pile of paperwork and asks for my insurance card, drivers license and credit card.

6:50- Sitting in the waiting room. There is the end of a movie with Dennis Quaid and Natasha Richardson on. They are in a wine cellar and he is manhandling a bottle of 1923 Burgundy in a room that is lit up like the 4th of July. I wonder if I am going to meet Natasha before this day is done. Both she and the bottle over Burgundy are dead and the saying, “non c'è due senza tre” runs through my head.

7:10 – Paper work done, and then scooted into a little, dark, cold room that has Leave it to Beaver on. I touch every button on the screen. Last thing I want to do is die with that running through my head.

7:15 – Vitals checked. All good. On to chest x-ray. Back to little, dark, cold room. The TV is now dead. Good, that’s the “tre”.

7:30 – Doctor comes in. shows me the x-rays. Stomach is filled with large pockets of air. “What did you have for lunch?” he asks. “Just a Cuban and some rice and beans,” I answer. “Do you eat beans often?” he asks. “All the time.” Not lying.

7:40 – Doctor asks me to lay back. He presses my abdomen and when he helps me get up, there is no more pain. None.

7:45 – Before he discharges me, the Doctor, tells me “Don’t eat anything spicy or creamy, stay away from fried foods and alcohol. Drink some Sprite or Perrier. And don’t lift anything for a few days and please try to stay out of the heat.”

8:00 – I show up at wine dinner. I missed the Vitello Tonnato course. Everyone is surprised to see me except the owner’s brother. He is putting on a pair of plastic gloves, looking like he's playing Doctor and getting ready to give a digital rectal exam. “Where’ve you been?” he asks. I scurry past him after I say hello in a funny, Italo-idiomatic way.

10:00 PM – After the dinner the supplier wants to go to the hotel and sleep. The winemaker wants to drink some of the supplier’s champagne. I call up several people to ask where we could go. We are directed to a quirky French-ish wine bar near the hotel. I proceed to drink a little Champagne and take my friends back to their hotel room. Temperature says it’s 99 °F at 11:00 PM.

11:45 PM - Go home eat some crackers and goat cheese, and watch an episode or two of Weeds and go to sleep. Wake up every two or three hours though the night with the worst headache. But I could breathe. And my heart was beating strong and steady.

All in a day’s work, on the wine trail, in August, back in the US of A.

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

Tending the Volcano

The unbearable heat of summer makes for an unexpected adventure of remembrance

We were supposed to be flying over Etna, but for some reason I was lying in my pool, staring at the sun. The birds were having a feast on the figs, which were exploding in a sugargasm of sweet, exotic honey living goodness. My body was roasting, bronzing like the grapes on the vineyard surrounding the volcano I was supposed to be flying over. But it was alright, because in summer, the wine and fig gods look after me.

The Joy of Selling

From the archives October 15, 2008


Last month at the Illuminati estate in Abruzzo, I had lunch with my people. No, they weren’t Sicilian or Calabrese cousins. They weren’t my co-workers or clients meeting me in Italy. It was much more visceral than that, almost tribal in the connection. I was invited to have lunch with a wine sales team, guys who sell to wine shops and restaurants in Rome.

Over the years I've had many meals at Illuminati. In the early days we had meals on the second floor of the old house, sometimes outside. If it was cold we’d invade the dining room. As the winery grew and the Illuminati family redesigned the old stable on the main floor, we settled into the space they called the Luperia, a space with a kitchen and an open hearth. And a larger dining room. Many great memories exist in this room, but I had never sat down to eat with my own regiment. And during those years, friend and cellar master, Agostino, has opened many a bottle for us to enjoy. We’ve grown into the job together.

I was really excited about this meal. I was prepared to pick the brains of rookie and veteran alike. Who would know better the travails of selling wine than a salesman from Rome? What kind of kickbacks did the Roman restaurateur demand? How did one go about getting control of the wine list or selling a wine from Abruzzo to a Sardegnan? I was hoping for all mysteries to be revealed.

Dino Illuminati, the patriarch of the estate, motioned for me to sit next to him. Lunch is serious business for Dino and he didn’t want anyone to get too near him with idle chat. He wants to eat and drink first. I know the drill. When Dino and I sit down we both go after food and wine pretty well much in the same way. Except Dino has a capacity that I will never be able to match.

One of the older veterans sat across from me. He reminded me of one of the salesmen back home. This gent had a peaceful air about him, he was the elder statesman; he grew up in Amatrice in northern Lazio.

I asked him how his route was. Was it competitive? Cutthroat? Was it hard to collect money? Did you get resistance with all the new wines coming out? What about the prejudices of owners from one region against the wines of another region (i.e. Piedmont vs. Tuscan). I was surprised to be reminded that they don’t go around tasting wine, sampling as we call it. Now they just carry their list, with maybe some Gambero Rosso review (very big in Rome) and the price list. Pretty cut and dry. Rome was a city that was prepared for all comers, and has been this way for hundreds if not thousands of years. Anything goes.

I was looking for their “hook”. How did they catch the big fish? Figuring Rome would be like NY or LA or Houston, there was always the particular technique that worked for the peculiarity of the particular city.

He was a thoughtful guy. And we were starting to drink pretty well by then. The big slurpy purple stuff they make in Abruzzo that they call “Montepulciano in purezza.” All the while the young salesmen would come over to him and bear hug him or jostle him around. You could tell these guys liked working with each other; there was camaraderie among them.

“Alfonso, what really works best is the rapport we build with our customers. Trust, time and relationship.” Ah, the “R” word. So the secret was, there is no secret; daily treading, pressing the flesh, and being reliable. Showing up. Building trust. Just like almost everywhere else.

Look at these people. They’re having fun. They’re enjoying their lives. They’re enjoying each other.

I told some stupid story, trying to be funny, about a sales experience here in The States, but I don’t think the experience translated so well to their frame of reference. No matter, platters of grilled lamb, sausage and pork were pulling up to the table and we soon were diverted to the main course.

Dino, me and Spinelli, back in 1985

The Luperia is a wellspring for me. I come back here to re-connect with those souls who are manifestations of the timeless energy that travels through the vine. Daniele Spinelli was one of the early winemakers I came to admire. I loved hanging out with him. When we would sit down to eat, as the night progressed, and as we went into red wine, the stuff he made, his head, shaped appropriately like a grape, would turn redder and redder. My Italian would get better and he would bestow his bodhisattva-blessing on me as a way to replenish me for another year. And send me back out to the outer regions to spread the word. It worked. And we came back every year or so, like pilgrims.

Luigi, me, Stefano and Claudio

Now, Dino isn’t so hands on. Spinelli passed away in 1992. But the next generation is upon us and there are more of them. As it is in the streets of Rome, so it is in the vineyards of Abruzzo. This is something that has been happening for hundreds of years and will continue, hopefully, for many hundreds more.

After lunch we went outside for espresso and cigars and fresh air, what a combo, eh? The sales crew had to get back to Rome. It was only three hours we’d had to sit down and break bread, but in that time I felt like a huge gift had been dropped in my lap; An afternoon with my selling tribe; with the young ones, the veterans, the crazy ones, the calm ones. Its not a closed brotherhood but it is a deep connection, to capture what is growing right out there in the land and transform it to wine and take it to Rome and NY and Austin and try and share with all those folks in those places these amazing miracles in bottles. Not just wine, but the lives, of Spinelli and Spinozzi and Illuminati and you and me and anyone that wants in on this.

This is the joy of selling. This is why I am on the wine trail in Italy and anywhere else the road takes me.

Thumbs up from a couple of Romans? I'll take that as a good sign.

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

The Dance of Deliverance

From the archives October 28, 2009

For weeks it seems I have been slumbered over a computer, studying trends, making spread sheets, eating dust. Bound to this place by time of harvest and holiday. Setting the stage for the big show.

Around midnight, outside, a dog howls. He is new to the neighborhood and every little noise spooks him. Last night, a storm cracked the sky wide open and doused the land. A day later everything stunk with the smell of dirt and roots, perfect for the birth of a mushroom, but an olfactory Chernobyl.

In the dusk, bent over, harvesting the last of my crop, I thought about my escape. I am still hobbling from my last one, but the slumbering volcano calls. I need to go to Basilicata and dance.

From early days I remember listening to my grandmother hum soft rhythms in dialect, inherited from the Albanian diaspora that dotted the lands of our ancestors. Tribal dances that dyed our DNA with a dark mysticism, an allure, a danger behind the veil. And now I can neither resist nor ignore the dirge that has been driving the blood through my veins. Aglianico, my mistress, who is caressing you, who is neglecting you? Who will defend you against this molestation by modernity, couched with the mind numbing mantra of the shape shifters who chant “We aren’t hurting anything, we aren’t changing tradition. We are just making the wine better.”

Better? With yeasts developed in Torino, from factories provided by funds that grew from the wealth brigands stole from these very places? Has television and mobile phones done in a few short years what Hannibal and Caesar and Federico II and Napoleon weren’t able to accomplish in all the ages before? Why would you mingle the yeast for panettone with the grano duro of Barile?

Aglianico, don’t go with them. Aglianico, don’t let them carve you smooth and fatten you up. For thousands of years you have been the blood of the volcano, the dance of the harvest moon, the swoop in the cantine where so many marriages were made. How can you give it all up for the sake of a fancy new name and a small toasted barrel? You will sit in lonely places in faraway lands, with a high price tag, only to be forgotten, come una vecchia lampada in soffitta, when the fashion changes.

Look how they have mucked it up in Piemonte, In Toscana and in the Veneto. Fancy new styles, everybody getting a facelift; hiking their skirts up and letting the scores and the stars and the swollen shrimp determine your fate and their future. To be timeless is to take back the power the land bestowed upon you.

I’m coming to Basilicata, as fast as I can, to stop this false dance with i truffatori.

The essentials, in a life not limited by impulse, are bread, love, dance and wine. They are dearer when we answer the call from the Ancients. And cede not to ease or fear or whim or pain.

Padrona, vengo giύ subito.

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

Shangri-la-bria

From the archives July 29, 2007

The road though the Cilento National Park hooked me. I want to linger. Forests, greenery, cool, peaceful. It is the kind of experience one can only hope to have in Italy, or anywhere. But the coast is calling, as is Calabria. We will have to touch the sand when we get there. The trail goes straight through the Sila.

Calabria is a strange place. I do not advise American tourists to go there on their first trip. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Calabria. But you cannot pack your wash-and-wear assumptions about the way the world is from an American-based set of ideas.

Calabria is its own reality, and if you don’t mind what happens, then you can become immersed in a world of color and spice, folklore and music. The rest of Italy sometimes makes fun of Calabria, for her poverty and her backward ways. The Calabrese say, that impression, while not correct, serves well, to keep away some of the riff-raff.

The beaches, the water, the sun, the breeze. Elemental ways. If you don’t mind. Paradise for those who can turn the tempting serpent of their inner chatter box off long enough to take in the Now.

After a long and winding drive through the Sila, Cosimo, our host, was waiting for us at his trattoria. A short man with one eyebrow and piercing, beautiful eyes. Like a sunflower stalk, Cosimo stands on this earth anchored, confident. A very happy soul.

Immediately he starts rapid-fire talking to me in Italian, and for some reason, I understand almost every thing he says. Maybe it’s the accent, like my Nonna Lucrezia’s. He excuses himself to talk to his fishermen out in the sea.

Italy has a strange cellular reception configuration. I should ask David about this, he knows more about that than I do. I imagine, for the trade involved, the brokers and restaurant owners on the shore need to be linked up with the fishermen, in order to gauge their commerce in fresh seafood.

A plate of gamberi came out from the kitchen and Cosimo opened a bottle of a white Mantonico.
Crisp, cool, fresh, I knew I had to pace myself. This was just one of probably many courses. Antonio from the winery would be here in 20 minutes, he wanted us to taste his new wines in the ambience of Calabria. It had been a few months since we tasted the wines at Vinitaly, so I was anxious to taste them again and in such a wonderful place.

After a meal that regenerated our road-weary souls, we sat along the shore to the song of the waves lapping by our feet. Peace. We had gone from forest to coast in a few hours. The only hot thing we suffered through was the grappa al peperoncino. This is Shangri-la, sans serpente.

What do I love about Calabria? Well my trips there from the past have great memories.

The figs, the eggplant, the peppers. The farm made cheeses, the exotic honey, the green hills, the innocent rustic character of the region. Even though the trattoria is along a strip of coast, the heart of the place is in the hills, among the wild things. That’s what makes Calabria so alluring.

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

The Festival of Malvasia

From the archives July 27, 2008

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.

As I take a little nap, under the sun, above the body of water that occupies my isola, I have a dream. We are back in Southern Italy, walking. Somewhere off the distance there is a masserie; they are waiting for us, with wine and lunch. We are just a few minutes late, but we parked the car when the road would take us no further. There is music and the sound of drums coming from the distant winery. They are celebrating the Festa della Malvasia.
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.

My friend, Carlo the clown, is already there. We have a psychic communication, he is wondering where we are. But he’s fine, he’s playing with the monkey. My musician friend from California has called me; he is bringing a philosopher friend from Paestum, so he is behind us.

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:

Please, all who come, bring a little piece of your past to share, and take home a piece of your future. We have cooks from Naples, so no one should go home hungry. The wine is neither the old, dirty wine nor the new, lifeless wine. We are cracking open the barrels of real Italy; please bring a demijohn to take some home with you. Bring your mother, bring your sister, bring your sons and daughters and lovers. Or bring the priest, for we will all need him eventually. Come as you are, not as you wish to be. The party will last three days. We will not sleep, you’ll see. Do not RSVP. Just arrive when you can. Don’t be late.

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.

Once inside the building we were greeted by an older woman with grayish to white hair, long and gathered in the back. She had a handful of young children surrounding her and her eyes where bright green. She handed us goblets. One of the young children took us to a room where there were pitchers. We were poured some cool, white wine.

Across the hall was a large open room, with tables and music and tiellas of rice and mussels, steaming and aromatic. Jugglers were practicing with tomatoes and squash, packs of trained dogs followed their every move. There seemed to be an order to all of this, although it didn’t seem to make any sense, nor like this could ever happen in real life. And then we sipped the wine.

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.

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

Punchinello Drawings by Giovanni Domenico Tiepolo