Blog Title: On the Wine Trail in Italy

...Italy and the wine trails of the world. Food and friends, love and dreams, some here, some but a memory....mainly posting every Sunday, Wednesday & Friday

Texsom 2008 ~ Session Notes

There never seems to be enough time for it all. Put handful of master-somms and an ersatz Italian together and give them 90 minutes to talk about 8 wines? Not enough time for disambiguation. No time for the bang, not even for a whimper. Press on, press on.

There is something exhilarating about being in a room with a set of high energy wine gurus. Rising tide kind of thing. We had two sessions on Italian wines, Italy being a darling of the mutant set of somms currently working their way around the airports and boardrooms of the halls of power in the wine biz. Make no mistake about it folks, the big boys in the industry know what is at stake and they have lined up some of the best and the brightest to sell the message down to the platoon level.

In our sessions, day one (Northern and Central Italy) we had:
Moderator: Brian Cronin MS

Panel:
Laura DePasquale MS
Brett Zimmerman MS
Larry O'Brien MS
Joe Spellman MS
Alfonso Cevola CSW

Day two (Southern Italy and the islands) we had:
Moderator David Glancy MS

Panel:
Laura DePasquale MS
Reggie Narito MS
Larry O'Brien MS
Brett Zimmerman MS
Alfonso Cevola CSW

I would love to accompany a couple of these folks on a wine blast through Italy, or anywhere for that matter. Guys like Larry O? Brian (above) always seem to be working through the wine, constant students of the grape. Brett Zimmerman, working for a small importer, his path on the Italian wine trail, treading and tasting, working his way up that insurmountable mountain we call Italy. How about that new salesperson in the audience looking at this and wondering how they?ll be able to get to base camp? I?m telling you, sons and daughters, we?re all trying to get to base camp. And on to the ascent.

Teaser: The article in the latest Sommelier Journal from my last trip to Piemonte just a little avvinare (taste). Subscribe and support David Vogels valiant effort to bring intelligent writing about wine to the young sommeliers and all the rest of us.

On one of our sessions, The Central Italy part, we had two wines from Tuscany. I hadn?t realized it until I tasted the wines but there was some thread of similarity, even though the two wines were as different as concrete and balsa wood. The wines, Castello dei Rampolla?s Chianti Classico 2004 and the Argiano Solengo 2004, both had the imprimatur of Giacomo Tachis, albeit from a now historical whisper. Time, time, bang, bang, whimper, whimper.

The Rampolla spoke to me in a simple, pure and direct way. The spirit of the place, Panzano, was erect and present. Wild horses tied to a wagon heading towards a sunset on the coast, in no particular hurry. Gorgeous, golden, wild, velvet, young-first-love-Michele-in-1965. Holy mother of God, how did they do this?

The Argiano, with those gypsy grapes of Cabernet, Merlot and Syrah (aren?t these the grapes that could get a winemaker in trouble in Montalcino?), preening and prancing about the glass. ?Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain.? I?m at a loess for words. I don?t want to like this wine, want to prefer the Sangiovese in purezza. But the two wines have this astral thread that connects them. Is it the Dali Lama of Italy, Tachis, from his cave in Sardegna, sending out his influence over the waves, out-Milarepa-ing Milarepa?

Soil, servitude and the fortune of territoriality. Two wines, two apparently different styles. Our house is a very fine house, with two cats in the yard. Dottore Tachis, now everything is easy ?cause of you.

And this is the way the week ends. Not with a bang, but a conga line.

Texsom 2008 ~ Hill Country Ho-down

Kim Stout looking after husband Guy Stout, M.S. and Larry O'Brian, M.S.

Drew Hendricks, M.S. lovin' that cobbler ala mode

Fred Dame, M.S., and Travis Goff doin' some dirty dancin'

Out On a Limb for an Etna

Some time back, when I was invited to Sicily to evaluate several vineyard projects, a few of us were sitting around the midnight table with passito and amaro. Next thing you know, we grabbed a few hours of sleep and then piled in a large van and headed towards the volcano. It was our homage to Burning Man, and what was waiting for us wasn?t what we had expected.

A few weeks ago I tasted through a portfolio of wines and was interested in the Etna Rosso from Terre Nere. The last time I had had it was at the Fatty Crab with Regina Scrambling and my gal Kim and it paired beautifully with the exotic plates that filled our table. Nerello, once again I was encountering the little phantom grape that I first got to know in my youth.

Nerello and Frappato are my two favorite red wine grapes from Sicily. Zibibbo and Malvasia in the uber-elixer versions also influence me. And of course the particular Marsala wines from masters like De Bartoli complete the opera for this Sicilian-swayed soul. But back to the fire on the mountain.

I am so much a Western Islander, influenced by the Palermo-Trapani-Corleone triangle. On the east coast, from Messina to Noto, it?s another world.

We arose early, drank a bitter espresso and some almond cakes and headed to watch the sun rise on Etna. It was September, and the harvest was in full-swing. Along the small roads cluttered with vines, the early morning heat lit up the highway with the perfume of the harvest. And though this was a harsh environment, the time and the place had come to an agreement, a permanent cease-fire for getting along with each other. Survival allowed for a softening of the onslaught, and the Sicilians were the recipients of the bounty of their captors, once again.

So remote, so unmalleable, is this area, that during the war life proceeded pretty well much as it had for centuries. People on the mountain had a larger adversary, the fire within. Nazis and Fascists and Allies were little distraction from the ongoing conflict against Mt. Etna.

To be able to grow anything, to gather a harvest, is an annual miracle that has been taking place for thousands of years. Here is where Nerello and the lovers of the fire grape reach for their remedy.

The older the vine is the more issue from a kind of sortilege by the earth. Not in quantity but in power and potency.

Here is where the Greeks claimed a goddess, Aetna, by Zeus, the mother of Palici, worshiped for centuries by the ancient Siculi tribes. Now we drink wine from glasses instead of blood from skulls. It is much better for everyone.

Another tale has it that the older vines are the ancestors who have settled down and have become immortal. And in order to live forever they must produce wine from the extreme hillsides surrounding the summit. Nowadays, the terrain, while challenging, is experiencing a renaissance in interest for these wines. The immortals stretch and wake from their slumbers.

The wines are astringent, not too heavy, red but not morbidly so, and can match well with exotic food or staple fare. There is something about wine from this area of Sicily that has many of us excited.

One from our group proclaimed, ?Etna Rosso is the opposite of Gruner Veltiner, but equally fascinating are both wines to the same people.? I can see that. Etna is fire and passion, yes, but also order, controlled chaos from the bowels of Hades. After a day scrounging along the rim, waiting for the sunset, I felt another piece of the Sicilian puzzle slip in place. It was beginning to make sense in this extreme landscape. We are an accident of the cosmos, all of it. And that is cause for celebration. Music, fire, drums, wine, alchemy, life.

Living the Life You?ve Dreamed

Forget the Euro and the price of oil, the mergers and strategic joint adventures; let us plunge back through the pinhole of reality. Italy, vineyards, grapes, fresh food. The life you?ve dreamed.

All through the year these pages divulge personal ardor for things Italian, some real and some imagined. But there comes a time when it just doesn?t matter which is which. What we are dealing with, here and now, is the awareness of an Italy that transcends time and space. I?m sure there are cynics lurking around the dark corners of some Chinon-soaked bar, just waiting to pounce on another man?s dreams. Those people are dead to themselves. I say, dream and live, and live the dream.

Abruzzo in the summer of 2008 is looking like the archetypical pastoral Italy of the 1970?s, the 1740?s, of hundreds or thousands of years ago, or sometime in the future. It is timeless beauty. There?s no reason to shun it or criticize those who love it for its own sake. Look, even if you never make it to Italy, you can still reap the joys of the harvest of the heart. The fool in the corner is kicking a cat and spitting out blood, and then expects us to revere his bleak judgments, because it is contrary and has a gravitas that is attention seeking. But the blind old man is living alone in his tree house in a sunless country. Look around you, sunflowers don?t grow in hell.

I am in awe of my Italian friends who live this way, an everyday occurrence. Along with that there is a fecundity in the air, the soil, the bounty. This is no accident. This is no illusion; there is no corporate nudge moving things along in a timeline to become the biggest, the best, the longest, the hardest. It is all in a flow of collaborative providence.

Do you ever wonder, if you are somehow involved in the world of wine, whether it be in a restaurant or a wine store, or as a salesperson in a distributorship or as a rep for an importer, why sometimes the wine runs out?

I am more surprised that it doesn?t run out more often. We bully and bloviate over some contessa who deigns to swim in the sea for a month or more, as if our mission statements or business plans were so much more important. I remember the story of the Italian Prince and his magic cellar and just stop. Inside, the word "cancel" pops up, my mantra which interrupts the chatty little monkey running around my brain. Who in the hell are we in America to say what the Italians should or shouldn?t do?

The wine will come when it comes, just like the tomatoes and the figs. If not, there is a McDonald?s down the avenue. Go, get your fill.

And if you truly can follow the advise of Mr. Thoreau and ?live the life you?ve dreamed,? then this doesn?t seem so odd, so pie-in-the-sky. The disparager in the darkness cannot tempt you to drink his bitter drink of vinegar and bile. He?s invisible, has no secrets, no leverage.

?Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still.? Another Thoreau insight. Italy is full of the meat of life, filled with the marrow of passion, grab a rib and hold on. There is only one life; there is no time left to kill.

Deep Thoughts in Agitated Waters

August 10, 2008
From: 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.

Which Wine With Googootz?

I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." - G. Marx

It's a Doggy Dog World

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.

Probably for the better, as it would only collide with a world coming out of the succeeding century. Imagine this tidy, friendless someone, if he happened to accidentally get a glimpse into a world 50 years past the time in which he wrote what would be considered one of the greatest novels of Italian literature in the 20th century. And if his world concerned the world we have woven on this little Italian wine planet three times a week for the last two years, if he were to be dialed in to the planet that the Italian wine trail is, what then? Let?s talk a little walk down that road.

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.

The significance? If there is one, rather than a late night tip-toe through the tulips, it might be to admonish the old man for his stern countenance that led to his early demise. Or was it that he blew it all in one book and saw no reason to stick around? Surely the world has become a coarser place in the last half century. Less civil in some ways, more matter-of-fact. Less structured, but more flavorsome. Not without the little pains that come if you live long enough. But a little glass of Marsala or passito di Pantelleria can ease one into sweet slumbers in preparation for another day of battle in this agro-dolce world.

Hotter Than a Pizza Oven in Pozzuoli

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.

Tre Giorni ~ Tre Pizze

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 Spaccanapoli. This place ranks up there with Pizzeria Bianco in Phoenix and Luzzo's in NY.

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? Nino Franco Faive, Caggiano Irpinia Bianco Fiagre (Fiano-Greco), Ca dei Frati Lugana, Cusumano Benuara and Tenuta delle Terre Nere ?Guardiola? Etna Rosso.

Spaccanapoli has a wine list that is predominantly Southern Italian. I have seen Italian places that have wine lists that are Italian only; this one was Southern. Texas, take notice. This is in your future. Brace yourself.

The Mother of Intervention

Before there was Rolland and Accad, long before Helen Turley and Clark Smith, ages before Cotarella and Tachis, there was an influence in winemaking that probably has had as much authority, over time, as all the above combined. (And you can throw in all the high-ranking wine critics too). Were his techniques natural, or did he meddle?

Recently I read this in one of the old books on wine that I inherited from a friend and mentor who recently passed away. The passage went like this:

Q. In winemaking, what do you get if you don?t intervene?
A. Vinegar.

The following are some excepts regarding winemaking, translated from his mater lingua. Seems that was the way in those days in sunny old Frascati, i.e. Tusculum. Have some fun; nothing new under the sun?

? 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.

? If your place is far from the sea, you may use this recipe for Greek wine: Pour 20 quadrantals of must into a copper or lead boiler and heat. As soon as the wine boils, remove the fire; and when the wine has cooled, pour into a jar holding 40 quadrantals. Pour 1 modius of salt and 1 quadrantal of fresh water into a separate vessel, and let a brine be made; and when the brine is made pour it into the jar. Pound rush and calamus in a mortar to make a sufficient quantity, and pour 1 sextarius into the jar to give it an odor. Thirty days later seal the jar, and rack off into amphorae in the spring. Let it stand for two years in the sun, then bring it under cover. This wine will not be inferior to the Coan.(Coan wine is wine from the Greek island of Kos)

? Preparation of sea-water: Take 1 quadrantal of water from the deep sea where no fresh water comes; parch 1½ pounds of salt, add it, and stir with a rod until a boiled hen's egg will float; then stop the stirring. Add 2 congii of old wine, either Aminnian or ordinary white, and after mixing thoroughly pour into a pitched jar and seal. If you wish to make a larger quantity of sea-water, use a proportionate amount of the same materials.

? Recipe for Coan wine: Take sea-water at a distance from the shore, where fresh water does not come, when the sea is calm and no wind is blowing, seventy days before vintage. After taking it from the sea, pour into a jar, filling it not fully but to within five quadrantals of the top. Cover the jar, leaving space for air, and thirty days later pour it slowly and carefully into another jar, leaving the sediment in the bottom. Twenty days later pour in the same way into a third jar, and leave until vintage. Allow the grapes from which you intend to make the Coan wine to remain on the vine, let them ripen thoroughly, and pick them when they have dried after a rain. Place them in the sun for two days, or in the open for three days, unless it is raining, in which case put them under cover in baskets; clear out any berries which have rotted. Then take the above-mentioned sea-water and pour 10 quadrantals into a jar holding 50; then pick the berries of ordinary grapes from the stem into the jar until you have filled it. Press the berries with the hand so that they may soak in the sea-water. When the jar is full, cover it, leaving space for air, and three days later remove the grapes from the jar, tread out in the pressing-room, and store the wine in jars which have been washed clean and dried.

? 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.

? If you wish to determine whether wine will keep or not, place in a new vessel half an acetabulum of large pearl barley and a sextarius of the wine you wish to test; place it on the coals and bring it to a boil two or three times; then strain, throw away the barley, and place the wine in the open. Taste it the next morning. If it is sweet, you may know that the wine in the jar will keep; but if it is slightly acid it will not.

? To make sharp wine mild and sweet: Make 4 pounds of flour from vetch, and mix 4 cyathi of wine with boiled must; make into small bricks and let them soak for a night and a day; then dissolve with the wine in the jar, and seal sixty days later. The wine will be mild and sweet, of good color and of good odor.

? 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.

? If you wish to determine whether wine has been watered or not: Make a vessel of ivy wood and put in it some of the wine you think has water in it. If it contains water, the wine will soak through and the water will remain, for a vessel of ivy wood will not hold wine.

? 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.

? If you wish to make a laxative wine: After vintage, when the vines are trenched, expose the roots of as many wines as you think you will need for the purpose and mark them; isolate and clear the roots. Pound roots of black hellebore in the mortar, and apply around the vines. Cover the roots with old manure, old ashes, and two parts of earth, and cover the whole with earth. Gather these grapes separately; if you wish to keep the wine for some time as a laxative, do not mix it with the other wine. Take a cyathus of this wine, dilute it with water, and drink it before dinner; it will move the bowels with no bad results.

? Throw in a handful of black hellebore to the amphora of must, and when the fermentation is complete, remove the hellebore from the wine; save this wine for a laxative.

? To prepare a laxative wine: When the vines are trenched, mark with red chalk so that you will not mix with the rest of the wine; place three bundles of black hellebore around the roots and cover with earth. Keep the yield from these vines separate during the vintage. Put a cyathus into another drink; it will move the bowels and the next day give a thorough purging without danger.

? 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.

? To blend a wine as a remedy for gout: Cut into small chips a piece of juniper wood a half-foot thick, boil with a congius of old wine, and after it cools pour into a bottle. Take a cyathus in the morning before eating; it will prove beneficial.

? Recipe for myrtle wine: Dry out black myrtle in the shade, and when dried keep it until vintage. Macerate a half-modius of myrtle into an urn of must and seal it. When the must has ceased to ferment remove the myrtle. This is a remedy for indigestion, for pain in the side, and for colic.

And my personal favorite,
? Dogs should be chained up during the day, so that they may be keener and more watchful at night.

The Festival of Malvasia

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.

Gig Order

Commentary by Beatrice Russo

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

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

A few months ago he helped get me settled into this gig where I was around a lot of good wine, some money to pay the bills and a career track. Or so I thought. The reality was that if I don?t fight myself through the jungle I?ll never end up with much of anything. The whole wine biz deal is pretty much set on reaching these conditional goals that are constantly changing. I am Ok with a moving target, but, hey, I don?t see much incentive to excel, when the warlords at the top are controlling the numbers. IWG tells me to be patient, it will all work out. Like hell.

He?s off for a few days; has to take the vacation time or lose it. When he does, he escapes to his ?isola? and leaves me with the keys. Only rule is that I don?t get all wicked and profane. No problem for me, I know how to make myself understood.

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

I IM?d my friend in Austin, tried to help her get me a bead on the scene. She was out ?blitzing? some brand before the hurricane hits land. So she couldn?t help shore up the yurt.

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

And, you ask me, what does this have to do with the blog? Nada. Anymore than sequestering all the jalapenos has anything to do with making folks feel better. Don?t get me started. Here goes. We are now treating produce like we treat ~~terrorists~~ travelers. Stand here. Go through this screening process, drop your drawers, oops you have been infected with salmonella. It wasn?t bad enough that we all had to be infected with fear from the governmental overlords who get the jollies when all of us are scared to get on a plane? Now we have to be afraid of tomatoes? And jalapenos? What is going on in this country?

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

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

When the heck is IWG coming back? I can?t do this gig twice in a row.

A Sea of Affluence

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

For Americans who don?t travel much outside of their comfort zone, which in the last eight years there seems to have been a surge, there is the experience of getting on a very comfortable plane and going to the Italian peninsula. Once the craft touches ground, it seems everything is done to make sure this elite group of travelers never touches their feet on true Italian soil. Usually some kind of driver is waiting there to pick these affluent souls up out of the squalor in which the natives squat, and then there are whisked to some 5 or 6 or 7 star resort, the ones with the 800 count sheets and the white-goose-only down pillows. Or better yet, whisked straight to a port, like Naples or Ostia, where an offshore vessel awaits, private chef, staff and ambience included.

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

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

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

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

Chi mangia solo crepa solo.

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

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

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

Sure I was out of my element. And I was walking alone in a poor part of Italy, that only 25 years earlier had seen war and destruction and famine. Starvation. Poverty. Got the picture? The children, many of whom are now the folks running the place, what were they going to do to me, rob my soul? Let?s say someone took a roll of film or even a camera, or a pair of jeans, so what? But it didn?t happen. Old women sitting on the outside of their homes greeted me as if I were a grandson. Some invited me in for a bowl of pasta, a glass of wine. That wonderfully real Campanian stuff. Kids wanted me to take pictures of them and kick the soccer ball around with them. Merchants wanted me to take things home for a pittance (this was the era when the dollar was worth 600 lire, and you could buy a meal for about 1100 lire).

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

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

The Stake Behind the Sizzle

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

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

Back to Speranza?s. Hallie was in the kitchen, and Michael would guard the door for interlopers. I remember him once telling me that people would come in looking for spaghetti and meatballs, or lasagna, and he would escort them out the door and show them to the nearby Spaghetti Warehouse, send them on their merry way. Speranza?s wasn?t a spaghetti and meatballs kind of place. Though if you wanted a really authentic Bolognese, you hit the jackpot.

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

These days Hallie has rekindled her love for things Italian by offering to cater for private parties. And here we have the crux of the dilemma. Why does something as wonderful as the real Italian thing have to resurface on the side street of an emerging culture? Is it that the culture of Austin is so dominating there isn?t room for another ?real? experience? Is the importance and coolness of Austin so restrictive that there isn?t any air in the room for poor little Italian culture to breathe? Is the heat from a Neapolitan kitchen just a little too hot for the cool culture? I find that really hard to believe.

Don?t get me wrong, there are some wonderful experiences that have sprung up. There is the casual and laid back Asti, which is always fun to see the convergence of things Italian in the spirit of Austin. There is Siena, which is this lifelike reproduction of an Italian Castello, complete with the smells of the open hearth. And there is Vespaio, with its frenetic, Italian-with-a-nod-to-Nice fare. Good times. And there is Damian Mandola?s Trattoria Lisina in Driftwood, which gets so close you can almost smell it. But the real deal, without compromise, hasn?t been back since the Speranza?s shut the door on their little place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tune-Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flash-forward several hours later, after our main event. A couple of us are sitting outside under the warmish Austin night, quenching our thirst with an Alsatian Riesling. One in our party, a Master somm, related a story of how they charged, in one of their clubs in the meat packing district of NY, $700 for a bottle of Cristal. It seems that was too low, the wine was selling too fast; they had to go around the regular channels of procurement. So they raised the price, $1200, $1700, $2500. It got to the point that they couldn?t ask too much for a bottle of the stuff. Makes the $80 buck bubbly look like chump change.

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

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

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

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

? 2004 Re Manfredi Aglianico del Vulture
? 2004 Nino Negri ?5 Stelle? Sfursat

? 1999 Produttori del Barbaresco Barbaresco
? 2001 Bruno Giacosa Barolo

? 2006 Fama Fiororange (Maculan Dindarello)

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

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

Speakers & Panel Members-The List So Far:

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

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

Shelf Deception

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

Now we are starting to reluctantly see the introduction of the new pony cars, like the new Dodge Challenger or the new Chevy Camaro, which were designed way back when the price of oil was $40 a barrel and now it is $140. No wonder there isn?t too much excitement about those cars, except in places like the Chinese Billionaire Club or the Dubai Gazillionaire?s Guild.

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

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

I know some of my importer friends and colleagues don?t like to hear it, but the world has presently turned away from something thought up to be uber and special, a luxury item created for an emerging market that can barely keep its head above water.

Under the Tuscan Stun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How is it a bee sting can be more significant than running into a wall? It might be because the bee pinpoints their focus on exactly one point. Running into a wall can be hard to spot, years down the road. Tonight I ran into a wall. At a friend house someone suggested I try the Silverado Reserve Merlot 1997. So I did. Just as I have tried