Steve Edmunds
Steve Edmunds
How lucky to be in Italy in the Fall! Being a winemaker here has usually ruled out that possibility, but I lucked out, finally, and got all the '08 wines tucked away in time to pack up and fly to Venice at the end of September.
I had plenty of reasons to be tired when the trip began, and, despite having always wanted to experience harvest in Europe, I was disinclined to focus much on wine during our trip. This was NOT going to be a working "vacation." I was happy to drink, and to choose what I might drink, but I resisted putting too much effort into making those choices.
Italy seems to be a pretty good place to do that- the most common wine experience I had during our three weeks away was ordering a half-litre pichet of white wine (sometimes red), and, in most cases, being completely happy with what ended up in my glass. (Wine Disorder of the First Magnitude) Being in Venice, Trieste, Gorizia, and Bolzano for the first 9 nights of the excursion, the variety that ended up in my glass most often was Pinot Bianco/Weissburgunder. And, to a greater or lesser extent, each one was delicious. There was one pretty indifferent Soave, a Pinot Grigio or two that was forgettable.
At Quattro Feri in Doursoduro (sp?)on our first night, a Pinot Bianco from Figli delle Vigne was gorgeous. At Cantinone Schiave? (help me out here--near L'Accademmia, a cichetti joint) with cichetti a Soave Pieropan, vineyard designated, forget which one, was riveting. In Gorizia, at Cente e Uno, a Ribolla from Buzzinelli was, though young, beautifully composed, minerally (a la Travertine marble), fresh, likely to blossom 6-8 years hence.
I drank a Schiopettino in a bar en route from Gorizia to Bolzano ( all backroads, jaw-dropping ride through the Dolomiti)that was rustic and satisfying. Nosiola in Trento, Grechetto and Rosso di Montefalco in Umbria (and something called Porphyry, from the Sierra foothills, by way of Berkeley), Falanghina and Greco di Tufo in Rome. Countless other things.
We hiked in the Alps, and out from Castelluccio in the Sibellini Mountains, picnicking on wild boar salumi, and Pecorino from Norcia.
It was at a farmer's market in Trieste that I drank what was perhaps my favorite wine of the whole trip. There was a fellow there from Sardegna, selling cheese and salumi (both of which we bought, along with some x-rated figs from a different vendor). This guy looked like he'd been out on a craggy, windblown sea-bluff most of his days, and he had a stern, fiery kind of look, slightly dangerous. When he said he was from Sardegna, I asked him, innocently, if he drank Vermentino. He said, no, he thought it was too dry. Then he reached under his table, and pulled up a package of plastic cups, and a plastic water bottle filled with something red, and dark. As he began to pour tastes for Cornelia and me, ond one for himself, I began to worry what this stuff might taste like, if he thought Vermentino was "too dry."
It was inky dark, heady, and completely alluring to smell. "Cannonau!" he growled, his eyes glowing. God it was good--toothsome, deep as the Mediterranean sky, full of the wild scrub perfume of the island hillsides. Wine that makes your hair stand on end. Can't beat it with a stick.
I had plenty of reasons to be tired when the trip began, and, despite having always wanted to experience harvest in Europe, I was disinclined to focus much on wine during our trip. This was NOT going to be a working "vacation." I was happy to drink, and to choose what I might drink, but I resisted putting too much effort into making those choices.
Italy seems to be a pretty good place to do that- the most common wine experience I had during our three weeks away was ordering a half-litre pichet of white wine (sometimes red), and, in most cases, being completely happy with what ended up in my glass. (Wine Disorder of the First Magnitude) Being in Venice, Trieste, Gorizia, and Bolzano for the first 9 nights of the excursion, the variety that ended up in my glass most often was Pinot Bianco/Weissburgunder. And, to a greater or lesser extent, each one was delicious. There was one pretty indifferent Soave, a Pinot Grigio or two that was forgettable.
At Quattro Feri in Doursoduro (sp?)on our first night, a Pinot Bianco from Figli delle Vigne was gorgeous. At Cantinone Schiave? (help me out here--near L'Accademmia, a cichetti joint) with cichetti a Soave Pieropan, vineyard designated, forget which one, was riveting. In Gorizia, at Cente e Uno, a Ribolla from Buzzinelli was, though young, beautifully composed, minerally (a la Travertine marble), fresh, likely to blossom 6-8 years hence.
I drank a Schiopettino in a bar en route from Gorizia to Bolzano ( all backroads, jaw-dropping ride through the Dolomiti)that was rustic and satisfying. Nosiola in Trento, Grechetto and Rosso di Montefalco in Umbria (and something called Porphyry, from the Sierra foothills, by way of Berkeley), Falanghina and Greco di Tufo in Rome. Countless other things.
We hiked in the Alps, and out from Castelluccio in the Sibellini Mountains, picnicking on wild boar salumi, and Pecorino from Norcia.
It was at a farmer's market in Trieste that I drank what was perhaps my favorite wine of the whole trip. There was a fellow there from Sardegna, selling cheese and salumi (both of which we bought, along with some x-rated figs from a different vendor). This guy looked like he'd been out on a craggy, windblown sea-bluff most of his days, and he had a stern, fiery kind of look, slightly dangerous. When he said he was from Sardegna, I asked him, innocently, if he drank Vermentino. He said, no, he thought it was too dry. Then he reached under his table, and pulled up a package of plastic cups, and a plastic water bottle filled with something red, and dark. As he began to pour tastes for Cornelia and me, ond one for himself, I began to worry what this stuff might taste like, if he thought Vermentino was "too dry."
It was inky dark, heady, and completely alluring to smell. "Cannonau!" he growled, his eyes glowing. God it was good--toothsome, deep as the Mediterranean sky, full of the wild scrub perfume of the island hillsides. Wine that makes your hair stand on end. Can't beat it with a stick.
