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A Thinking Girl’s Wine

Most people who write about Lambrusco start out with what it isn’t. I suppose it’s done to convince you to keep reading…to implore you not prejudge the wine based on its name. But I feel that’s like meeting a person that’s incredibly intriguing and then asking them questions about their past before finding out more about who they are right now. That’s just not something I would do.

And so, I’m going to tell you about a lovely sparkling red I met at dinner last night.

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“I like on the table,
when we’re speaking,
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.” 
― Pablo Neruda

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Wine that speaks to me

A glass of warm, ripe fruit — raspberry, black cherry and red currant with vague smells of those pretty violets if they’re crushed under your shoe as you walked through a warm, damp summer forest. You get the sense some wooden stems maybe slipped inside the vat for a moment or two. In one moment there’s a bit of black pepper, in the next its roasted green pepper. It tastes fully red but in a subtle, soft and savory way–there’s no cheating with overt sweetness here to soften the tender bitterness of this wine. It’s all done with a balance and texture from well-grown, old vine grapes and great wine making. The bubbles are careful and creamy and subtle–just enough verve to lighten my meal of Swedish Potato Sausage (uh-mazing) produced by The Organic Butcher of McLean (Virginia) without overshadowing the fruit flavors– which can leave that bitterness feeling rough in some renditions. What I love most about this wine is that it tastes intelligent. It’s like meeting someone for the first time that just draws you in…who makes you want to talk more and spill your guts. It’s that person who can stand toe-to-toe with you in the most intense discussion without talking over you. And that’s a person you don’t want to miss. Same with this wine.

Ten is the Luckiest Number

I love slipping into a house and a space created by a stranger. Designed as a special retreat, the best ones are furnished in a way that reflects the locale, the natural surroundings and the general vibe of the environment. But it’s a delicate balance–how to make a house of your own but used by others feel at once homey but without making guests feel like they’re living amongst your own stuff. Personal but not too domestic. I have found that in all instances the best of these places are defined by their selection of books.

And so I thumbed through the creaky bookshelf at the end of the wall of slouchy punee (couches) that was generously stocked with well-used retro board games — less retro maybe and more just old — and fell upon a well worn book destined for me to find. Hawaii Trails: Walks, Strolls and Treks on the Big Island by Kathy Morey. A vintage perspective on this constantly evolving island, it’s also filled with information on geology, history and language. While thumbing through, I found mention of a landmark and surrounding hike that seemed doable from my location along the ancient Ala Kahakai trail at Beach 69. Looking for something of a distance less than yesterday’s ten miles, I decided to set out to the north just after morning coffee.

Pu’ukoholā is a temple built by Kamehameha who, as one of three rivals vying for control over all the islands in the Hawaiian chain, was urged to do so by a powerful kahuna (priest) from Kaua’i. The kahuna told the warrior of his vision of Kamehameha’s success as king over the islands if he were to build a heiau (temple) to honor the war god Kū. This sounded good.

The first .59 mile of the trail which started just outside the gate of our Hale (house) went by with ease. The view across the golden plains to the right and up to Mauna Kea showed off a view free of vog to the point I could see the domes of the observatories some 14,000 feet up. Crossing over the wide, smooth sandy beach of Hapuna, the challenge was to keep track of the jumping path of the trail. It is broken up here and there by resorts, public beaches, private homes and an always aging and moving shoreline. I had hoped for a more rugged jaunt than yesterday with more time on the trail and I got it. I scaled down steep, sharped edged cliffs, ignored “Danger Flood Zone” warnings (twice) and huddled along the outside of a back yard fence suspended over the forest floor just to keep to the trail. I hiked past remnants of the long-ago homes of warriors carved into the cliffs above the Pacific. With a beautiful view of Mauna Kea beach, a huge washed out lava tube below seemed the perfect spot from which to launch a canoe for fishing or defense.

It became redundant–the small bays revealing secret black beaches or snorkeling spots filled with calm turquoise blue water. More and more never-ending breathtaking beauty. Maybe it was the sky, but the water had a particular iridescence that reminded me of Jolly Rancher candies. As I moved up the coast, the sharp cliffs fell more gently into the ocean. By the time I reached Spencer Beach, the digital companion mapping my walk gently announced “5 miles”. Oh well, so much for the shorter hike. It seems Ten is my lucky number on this trip.

I walked up off the beach and onto the surrounding slope. In the clearing above, I saw it. Resting above on a high, flat plateau the temple looked other-worldly…so obviously man-made in the midst of the most organic and wild surroundings. Here, along Kawaihae Bay, the land rises gently and seemingly forever toward the dormant Kohala. It is here, for the first time perhaps, that I am uniquely aware that I am standing at the foot of a volcano.

It’s incredible that this enormous temple was completed in just one year from lava rocks, not from here, but from Pololu Valley — miles to the north — selected for reasons unknown. So determined was Kamehameha to complete Pu’ukoholā and, therefore, the prophecy of his reign that he helped lay the stones himself. But this spot is more than just the temple. It lies at the very heart of Hawaiian history which lives on today in the hearts and traditions–the Mahalo–of everyday Hawaiians. Surrounding this temple are the foundations of buildings and a small cove which were part Pelekane, of a royal compound at the base of Mailekini, a second, less preserved temple that pre-dates Pu’ukoholā.

The cove here is home to the Hale o Kapini Heiau, a submerged temple dedicated to the akua (sharks) who still frequent this cove (note to self: resist the urge to cool off here). In short, this quiet spot is literally the Times Square of Hawaiian history. Yet there are only a handful of people here. My favorite part of the story of Pu’ukoholā is based less on fact and more on conjecture.

To set the plot of the prophecy in motion, Kamehameha invited his last remaining rival, Keoua, to the dedication of the temple. Now any decent temple of the day required a human sacrifice to make the warrior God satisfied. Knowing this, Keoua, with whom Kamehameha had been battling with no clear winner emerging, accepts the invitation. Why would he do this? It is said that following the last battle between these two rivals in the southern desert of Kau, Kīlauea–the volcano causing all of today’s troubles–erupted and mysteriously took a single group of Keoua’s men on their journey home, leaving them mysteriously dead in their path. Perhaps he felt then, as now, that Pele had spoken and directed him to do what is right by his people. So he glided into this cove in his canoe to what was his own certain death. After his assassination, Kamehameha became king and gradually united all the islands of Hawaii together as one. Now I know King Kamehameha was an extraordinary leader. But the self-sacrifice of his rival at the behest of the voice of Pele seems pretty amazing to me. And so while Pele is awake once more on the other side of the island, I have to wonder what her message is today. What are we missing? And as I turn for the long walk home, I think –maybe– that it is to walk quietly, take time see the life in all things around you and to take care of it.

Hawai’i: You’ve got to Want It.

It’s an uneasy beauty that’s carved out of the remnants of hot oozing lava. The black plains around me are filled with both the smooth, ropey pahoehoe and the rough & tumble broken chunks and boulders of a’a lava. The landscape, on its surface, looks less like paradise and more like that of the moon after being obliterated by a cyclon raid. But tucked along the shores far across these black expanses are idyllic, unmarked hideaways waiting for those who dare seek them out.

And so I packed my gear and left the house at Beach 69 before 7:30am to beat the heat. The goal for the day is to follow the Ala Kahakai trail south to just outside the Mauna Lani resort and the Puako Petroglyph Preserve. My days in South Africa visiting the San (Bushmen) paintings in the Cederberg Mountains instilled in me a fascination with man’s long-held desire to commemorate and preserve their current life in print.

About 1 1/2 miles into the hike this ancient trail fell away. Or I fell away from it—not sure which. I ended up trekking a good bit of the rest of the journey along the closest beach road that hugged the contour of the shoreline south. While a bit less exotic than I had hoped, this did allow me to explore several different beach access points along the way, each with its own personality and beauty. The water, in every case, was turquoise blue that stunned as it crashed against the black, rugged shoreline with its frothy white caps. Black sand, white sand, lava tubes with little “swimming holes” carved out from age within them lined the shore. One a place for quiet reflection, another a popular snorkeling and scuba spot and many more spots for quiet, unpopulated swims staying close to shore. But you’d need to seek out this long road — a road that leads to no where — to find these secret spots. But like everything else on this island, these spots are not for the faint of heart. Without bathrooms, lifeguards or easy access points, the daring are rewarded with secluded places to connect with nature in the rough-hewn paradise that is Hawai’i.

On the map, this road curved forward uninterrupted to an area near my destination. In reality, the road is bisected by a large fence that says PRIVATE PROPERTY with large metal gates to reinforce the message. I turned and looked back along the l o n g road back. I was determined not to walk back without making it to those glyphs. Luckily the last beach access point led to a stretch of beach strewn with large black lava and white coral pudding stones that stretched, unimpeded, to the Mauna Lani Resort. I made my way finally to the Petroglyphs and was mesmerized and relieved by the cool shade of its small forest of Kiawe trees. The trees looked dark — like so much of what the surface here looks like — hard and black, seemingly burnt or long dead….craggily, bent over and exhausted. But among the darkness were bright green stems sprouting randomly from the abandoned branches. And look up…more life. Birds of every color, rays of glowing sunlight and paths of amber colored decayed wood spread across the forest floor. At the end of the forest, the path opened onto a field of golden hay colored fountain grass and the bright green of the native Rhodes grass and then finally to the Petroglyph field.

The signs posted said that historians don’t know why people came to this place. The journey was difficult and the land across which they traveled was unforgiving. The drawings are simple forms of mostly humans — there are a few animals preserved in these drawings—and they are all oriented toward the mountain. Now I know nothing about ancient drawings and I know less about Hawaiian history, but this place feels sacred. And my own journey here was less than easy — I definitely had to want to get here — but would pale when compared to the effort required back in time without the benefit of my beach road or the previously carved out path along those pudding stones. So it seems that this was a place to come with a higher purpose. Perhaps to honor someone special who had died. And maybe these carvings are likened to carving a grave stone — a monument if you will. And maybe from time to time, someone’s most special person was an animal.

Before turning around for the long journey back the way I came, I realized that all of the beautiful places in this Hawai’i are found only if you want to find them. They are so well-protected by Pele and her pahoehoe and a’a, that to take it all in and feel like you’ve shared in the true Hawaiian energy, you have to be willing to work for it.

I am so glad I did.

Walking in Pele’s Shadow

The first time I came to Kona I peered out the window of the airplane just as it rounded Upolu Point. I glanced out the window, ready to take in the full view of “Hawaii” and was ready to be amazed. What I saw was shocking. Instead of the verdant green of lush vegetation, I saw miles and miles of vacant, shiny black tar. Accented by sunburnt flatlands easing slowly up to, what I assumed, was a centuries old volcano. I am not going to lie. I was disappointed.

The Big Island is not for the faint of heart. The typical traveler looking for the songs of sweet rum playing into the night, decorated with flaming torches and goddesses handing out blooming leis should bypass this place for Oahu. This island is rugged and quiet. It asks as much of its visitors as it does of itself .

But for the real adventurer—not the modern age type who plow through landscapes in tricked out SUVs or those for whom “glamping” is really roughing it—the secret beauty of this place is more than rewarding.

Follow along as I share my favorite places and keys to this islands magic.

90 Hours in Indy

I’m not entirely sure that I ever wanted to visit Indianapolis. Even when I lived in the Midwest, I feel like I thought of anywhere in Indiana—other than the Dunes on Lake Michigan—as nowhere. So it was with zero expectations for anything other than flat open spaces and plenty of boredom that I landed at Indianapolis International Airport on a pit stop (no Indy pun intended) en route to Kona, Hawaii.

The airport itself was a surprise. Light & airy and well-appointed with classic race cars on display, the clean wide open spaces of the main terminal were a welcome after feeling a bit cramped in the smallish regional jet used by American Airlines for travel here from Washington, DC. My baggage beat me to carousel—another benefit of visiting a city big enough to attract plenty of special events & visitors from around the world but without serving as a major national hub. I’m suddenly feeling a bit more confident about what needs to be an “on time” departure for my early flight out on Monday—the first of what will be a two-leg flight with a narrow layover in LA to make it to Kona on time. This airport feels well run. I breezed out the door before I had the chance to realize that I really needed coffee. No matter, I hopped in my Uber and started the 20-minute, traffic-free journey to downtown Indianapolis. $24 later, I checked into my modest room at the Courtyard Marriott, conveniently located within walking distance to my home for the next few days—the IUPUI Natatorium.

What struck me the most about the city is the quiet. I’m thinking that its due to the fact that all the faculty and students have left town now that IU and PU (Indiana University and Purdue) have finished classes for the year. But my Uber driver assures me that this isnt particularly quiet. Plus, he added, all the crowds surge in and out of the city for a full calendar of activities starting with the Grand Prix this weekend (the US Masters Swim Spring Nationals didn’t quite make his list of significant events apparently). There is only one other city whose sense of quiet has been so obvious and that was Montreal. Montreal’s lack of noise was a bit more notable due to the volume of people on the streets. Everything here is scarce—people, cars, trucks and—due to a lack of public transportation—smelly, loud buses. The streets are oddly wide for the number of vehicles and most alternate between one-ways making life as a pedestrian pretty easy. I walked everywhere and can’t imagine needing a car. Unless the Indy500 is part of your journey but I imagine then there would be plenty of shuttles available. Buildings are noticeably shorter than in most larger cities and parking lots larger & flat situated on land that would be considered to precious and valuable in DC, NYC or San Francisco. And yeah, its flat. But I feel like I can breathe. It’s the Heartland after all where you can stand in a field and shoot a 360 pano shot and never lose sight of the horizon. But as the sun fell and I set out by foot to dinner, a vaguely familiar sensation from distant summers fell over me. This soft, soothing warmth of a breeze without a hint of humidity blew past and over me. THIS was summer evenings in the Midwest. After baking in the heat of the sun during the day, the reward was always an evening spent in the relative cool of the outdoors at night. I remember taking walks to intentionally far ice cream spots for a cone and long evenings talking on the porch of my friends house past midnight. The air felt too good to go to bed. THIS was that air! Man. I used to love summer. But now on the east coast, I pray for a spring that lasts more than a few days before the heavy, lingering humidity sets in. And as much as I create inviting outdoor spaces for the long summer evenings, the truth is its usually to sticky and muggy to outside for very long.

A pleasant walk up New York Avenue toward the historic Massachusetts Avenue where a handful of trendy restaurants are built around the nation’s oldest shoe store reveals more surprises. Huge monument buildings. Disproportionately large but really pretty with a shape reminiscent to a tall square Masonic temple (my definition, not to be meant as an actual architectural reference). This memorial in University Park with the big bronze door yelling a reminder of “Truth” to me would serve as my own yoga spot perched high above the city during my three mornings in Indianapolis. In the shadow of the Salesforce building, I’m reminded that even the heartland can be an important tech and creative center. On the west end of the park, Meridian Street marks the end of the park and runs north to south, right it another impressive monument to Soldiers & Sailors of multiple conflicts. This one looks more like I’d see in France, characterized by a tall spire with a bronze figure perched atop. The dozens of tall stairs leading up to it are filled with people—here they all are! It’s meant to host a fountain but the surrounding pools are currently only partially filled. Into this monument, three other streets terminate, making it a focal point. Touristy horse-drawn carriages clip clop around the square, lit up like Disney’s parade Cinderella entry. Flash bulbs are popping everywhere as graduates from IU snap celebratory pictures alongside prom goers from some suburban high school. I climb up the stairs and take a glance down Maryland Street toward the State Government Supreme Court Building with the glow of the sun still lighting up the sky and I was reminded of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. What is this place? It’s a mish mash of design influences but for some reason it all works. Around the corner there’s an circa 1900 theatre with a ballroom on the sixth floor that brags about its ceiling murals and is hosting tonight’s prom. The quiet disappears as a seemingly endless parade of glug-glugging, two-person motorcycles saunter up Meridian from the other direction. You know the kind…the ones so big you think even you could ride them. They’re very nearly cars for heavens sake. A block or two over is St. Elmo’s Steakhouse (surrounded by another and then another steakhouse…remember, this is the Heartland) which has just the right blend of clubby steak-house feel and refreshing humility so its doesn’t feel like it takes itself too seriously. I head back toward New York Avenue and turn west toward my hotel. Within steps, its immediately serene once more. It’s the oddest thing. Had I not wondered, there would have been nothing but those impressive monuments that would have made me walk off my path. And I’m glad I did.

So while the quirky shops and boutiques that can be fun to discover seem to be hiding somewhere (perhaps in the Fountain Square District I never made it to), I’m not much for shopping anyway so its not much missed. I’d return here to Indianapolis for nothing more than greedy dose of these breezy, warm summer nights on its quiet streets when a stroll and a chat on the porch with a glass of wine are actually inviting prospects.

FULL NOTES to come:

Great Coffee and Breakfast

The Garden Table

Decent Pizza & affordable Wine by the Glass

Napolese Pizzeria

Fun Vibe Wine Bar

Louie’s Wine Dive

Coffee to Go

Mo Joe

Wines Tasted

Andrea Felici Verdiccchio dei Castelli di JesiProtea Rosé

Brancott Sauvignon Blanc

Pieropan Soave Classico

Francois Montand Brut

The Horizon is all Rosé

Nearly two months ago, I changed my path in a dramatic way for the first time in a long time. For the past number of years I had come to be known only as one thing— the owner of a neighborhood restaurant who took pride in being as hands on as possible blending being a good restauranteur with being a good boss. Sounds simple enough. But it became all-consuming. To the point where the principle and purpose overtook the person with all of the above overlooked and taken for granted.  But on a recent Monday morning, I climbed aboard the 7:25am Amtrak Northeast Corridor train bound for NYC set to tackle an intense itinerary of wine tasting and education. And for the first time, I did it with road ahead of me that was completely open. No work to rush back to—no guilt over what or who I’m leaving behind or ignoring while I do something that both challenges me and brings me pleasure. So it was fitting that on my recent trip to NYC for the Skurnik Portfolio Tasting, I ended up staring at an endless sea of my favorite thing: the welcoming shades of pink from a world of dry rosé. Clearly I seem obsessed with rosé since it seems to be the only thing I have written about. Well…I promise to get to more. I tasted more wine on that Monday and Tuesday in New York than seems reasonable — 80 a day is my max–after that, everything tastes just like the current bottle chilling in the fridge that I slurp down while tackling a new recipe in the kitchen. But what makes rosé such a home base wine for me? 

Looking across a remarkable self-serve (!!!!!) table of delicately colored wines that was no less than 24″ long, I loved that the table could be filled edge to edge without duplication. And yet never has a single category of wine been more relegated to a sort of monotheism: Its pink. Its pretty. Its cherry, strawberry and watermelon. And worse still…”Its Summer”. I suppose in some random and overreaching way, I have empathy with these wines. I was written off as being one thing too. Well. Time to explore the new horizons of both.

  • Chateau de Pibarnon Bandol Rosé 2017. In the world of rosé those from Provence in southern France are considered the benchmark, gold standard of blush wines. In part because the grapes in this region are most often grown specifically to produce rosé wines but also because of that kismet of qualities that together define “terroir”. Within the Provence region, there are several more specific areas and Bandol is the most famous among them. Chateau de Pibarnon is local here. What this means in terms of the wines is that it is classically basically in the red grape called “Mourvèdre” often blended with other allowed grapes (“Cinsault” in this case). This particular bottling of their rosé is the result of a slow and very light pressing of the grapes which gives it the most delicate pale pink color with flecks of pale coral. The aromas of this particular vintage were strikingly Sauvignon Blanc-like filled with pink grapefruit and fresh cut grass. Take a deep whiff and there’s something else there–that minerality…the “place”. When its not fruit but is more like “dust” or “wet stones” or “earth” or other such words that come to mind, that’s the place its from. And you don’t always get that from a wine. But for me, its what keeps a wine from becoming boring after a few sips. This wine was refreshing and made me long for spring and a nice rain in the middle of a field with a soft breeze. Yup. That day. But even though its still winter, I’d happily savor a glass with dinner tonight. The flavors were of juicy watermelon jolly rancher and cherry with hints of licorice. The acidity did that nice tingly thing in my mouth that keeps it exciting and makes look forward to glass 2. Its a little pricier than your average bottle of rosé but then again there’s purity and depth here and the knowledge that you’re supporting a historical property that hasn’t been overrrun by tourists or corporations and isn’t drawing from the world’s precious water reserves (medium more on that to come). Likewise, its hails from one of the most beautiful, natural areas of the world that has overcome hurdles to its existence for the past 1000 years (more to come on that as well). So in my book, its money well spent. $33.
  • Bieber Pere et Fils Bandol Rosé 2017. On the other side of the price and complexity spectrum is this perfect daily, thirst quencher. This is one of those recipe tackling wines. Its tasty and refreshing but in a way that doesn’t distract me from the task at hand (which the wine above would definitely do). In keeping with Bandol tradition, this wine ias based in the same “Mourvèdre” grape but here with both “Cinsault” and “Grenache” added. The color is a very pale onion-skin color with a highly floral nose and tasty, thirst-quenching flavors of strawberry. A sea-spray, “mineral” finish creates a seamless expression from start to finish. And remember–dry rosé here. No sweetness. You should see this one on the shelf for $11 (I know Whole Foods carries it for sure). Even those its dry, even your sweet moscato and riesling drinker should find it refreshing. The only caveat being, the mineral/terroir can often be a distraction. But I feel like dry rosé is the perfect way to help those very drinkers become familiar with these often new “Old World” flavor notes. 

So that’s that for today. I have more to say but it’ll keep for later. Have a good one. 

Quenching Your Thirst

So I’m not sure if you’re aware that South Africa is nearly out of water. It’s a hard concept to wrap your head around because water is…water.. You turn the faucet on and it just spills out. Even when you forget to turn it off or leave it on too long while you’re brushing your teeth. Or when you’re washing a single plate and you need that water to get good and hot first. You leave it on and it just keeps on dripping out. I’ve taken to politely haranguing people lately when they insist they need another glass of water and then fail to drink it up. In fact, it became a bit of a pet peeve of mine about customers at my (former) restaurant. One of the critical points in evaluating service depended wholly, it seems, upon whether or ot we managed to pay enough labor to keep that (free–to them not to me) glass of water filled to the rim. I know this, because a few of them politely but assertively told me so. And oh yeah, they wanted that water to be accompanied by a slice or two or–wait just bring me a dish–of fresh (and free) sliced lemons. Each and every night I dumped gallons of untouched crystal clear water down the drain and watched it swirl to its death, never having had the pleasure of fulfilling its destiny of quenching a bone fide thirst.

Anyway. Back to South Africa. Its a real thing. They’re nearly “out” of water, meaning the level in their reservoirs is falling below the drop dead (my words) level needed to preserve their ecosystem. When they shut the water off, the alternative will be for every man, woman and child to stand in a queue (or, if you’re rich–pay someone to do that for you) and haul your allotted 25 liters per person, per day, ration home where you can figure out how best to make that last for basically everything. Consider this: the average American shower uses 17.2 gallons or 65.1 liters and lasts for 8.2 minutes. So that will be out. Obviously. But its easy, to say “poor them” as we leave that faucet on as we fill our oversized bath tubs to the rim so we can have a warm soak with a bath bomb before a shower. But the other day, while doing a little research on another topic, I came across a documentary title that peaked my interest: “Water & Power: A California Heist” directed by Marina Zenovich. I watched that movie and I was shaken and stunned to the core. I’m not naive. I know that there’s power and money in way too many things these days. But I suppose I had just never extended my rage to the use of water in such a personal way. So you should definitely watch it. Immediately.

But here’s the thing. As a wine professional, I have an obligation to call out how my industry is wasting this finite resource for profit. And even when its creative expression. And I’m wondering now why more of us aren’t interested in speaking out about how crazy this is. Its easy to get mad at the huge conglomerates like the Wonderful Corporation (think POM wonderful, pistachios and Justin Winery in Paso Robles) but we have to ask ourselves. Why are we establishing industries in place that are not sustainable? Consider that “The majority of grape production in Washington [state] is located in the arid “East” where irrigation is an essential part of agriculture.” Those are the words of Washington State University Department of Viticulture and Enology. Meanwhile, back in France where zero AOC/AOP wines are allowed to be irrigated at all, producers watch sales go to the New World as they keep struggling on. No wonder they think we’re ridiculous. So dry-farming is a new requirement for my favored wine producers–anywhere and everywhere. And I’m pretty sure I need to re-evaluate my needs for all things almond. But watch that movie and tell me if you think I’m wrong. Fortunately for me, Frog’s Leap Winery in Napa has been dry-farmed for as long as I remember, so my passion for Frog’s Leap PINK and all their reds is safe.

Journey to Italy

I began to use my new-found philosophy prior to what I pegged as my “Vulcano Adventure” to southwest Italy and Sicily. And it all started with an old book.

During my Diploma studies with the WSET I often strayed away from my exam study syllabus and found myself hours later, twelve layers deep into the subject in what I could best call “shredding through the irrelevant minutiae that would never be on any test. On one occasion, I found myself in an online used book store. It was there that I discovered an old & forgotten wine & travel writer. When I received his book on Port it was his combination of prose and fact which was a delightful break from the intense and often dry study required by the syllabus. It was while lost along the 50’s era Douro river on  a sunny harvest afternoon described to the most delicate detail by Rupert Croft-Cooke, that I realized it wasnt just wine that I loved. It was the combination of culture, history, geology & viticulture that intrigued me—pursued me— with the flavors and textures of the resulting wines serving as the rapturous reward for paying attention.

Before leaving for Naples, I found an old copy of Peter Gunn’s book, Naples: a Palimpset (1961) and found a duo of old movies on FilmStruck from Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini that seemed like essential viewing: Stromboli (1950) —their first collaboration on film and Journey to Italy (1954). And yes, I channeled Dean Martin and Rosemary Clooney on Spotify with the requisite 50’s era cheesy Italian-esque chansons.

In the first few pages of Peter Gunn’s book, he spends a good deal of time talking about how much Naples gets ignored—dismissed even— by both international travelers and Italians themselves. Admittedly, he shared, its a difficult place to immerse yourself into but its charms, apparently, became deeply ingrained among those who are up to the task. He tells of how the most famous view—shown on all the postcards— which captures “Naples” with its shoreline rolling in from the left leading to Vesuvius on the right is actually captured from a vantage point outside of the city. In that view, the city itself is omitted leaving it neatly tucked away in the bay out of view.

Stromboli, an intriguing film I had never seen, showcases the character of a man who uses what seems like a bit of a trickery to convince Ingrid Bergman to marry him. Through a language barrier she intuits the promise of a lush and idyllic island as their home only to find a barren, volcanic rock far removed from the mainland as the reward for her opportunistic motivate in marrying the eager young man. The cast of characters on the island, including the ground itself, are as dark and gloomy as the black & white film itself. The question becomes whether he lied knowingly or if rather it represents an entirely different way of seeing the world. In Journey to Italy, set in Naples, is home to a secret hideaway left to Ingrid Bwrgman’s character by a dead uncle. The setting becomes this dark backdrop chronicling the slow decay of her marriage. With forgotten memories brought to light by the art, the chaos and mysterious culture traditions of Naples one wonders if their decay is organic or brought on by the setting itself.

In the opening chapter of Peter Gunn’s Naples, he questions whether readers understand the difference between being a tourist or a traveler: tourists tend to seek out those places (to stay, eat and visit) that make them feel most comfortable—that seem most familiar to them and fulfill their expectations of a place. The traveler will let their guard down and let a place come to them rather than them to it. After my introduction through written word, film and music I knew that if I let it, this journey could be quite the adventure.

When rosé isn’t just pink

Summer decided to take a back-seat to the Spring that we never received and I couldn’t be happier. A fan of moderate anything, I can do without the intensity of heat that summer in DC brings. So I was more than a little bitter when I was already digging to the back of my closet on the last weekend of April for work clothes that featured paper thin layers balanced with the discretion needed when working in front of people. So this morning when a perfectly cool morning arrived, I hit the outdoors and my mood turned happy. It was helped when the Despacito Remix streamed into my headphones (listen here) setting the perfect tempo for my walk. As is usually the case, a good mood & perfect temperature made me think about wine. And with rosé being my go-to, my mind wandered there. But today is a day for more than just fruity frivolity. Perhaps the latin sensibility of the music spoke to my own Cuban roots and the recurring theme of taking things slowly (depacito translated) with the velvety richness of an endless evening in the islands, took my mind to the Clos Cibonne Tradition. This rosé is a more serious-minded wine–maybe its my spirit wine channeling the complexity found in any decent latin woman. IMG_4829The color is really more pale copper than pink….more like the color of a warm sunset after an endless day. The flavors of this wine produced in a most unusual way — using an unusual choice of the local grape of Tibouren, aged (who has heard of aged rosé?!) under a layer of yeast where it matures, yielding correspondingly complex flavors lightyears beyond the strawberry, cherry fruity frivolity of meant-to-be-drunk fresh “pinks”. Bitter orange, vanilla & spice on a back drop of field strawberry & herb on a slowly pulsing, calm & slightly saline ocean wave of body on the finish. This is a wine for thoughtful food. This is a wine for thoughtful people. And its definitely the wine to savor despacito over a long and slow sunset. At least I have my plans for tonight.