2011 Brunello: a Chorus Girl or a Star?

When I was a kid, I was the sole Dodgers fan – Brooklyn Dodgers, as they were then – in a large family of Yankee fans. It scarred me for life and gave me a lifelong, unreasoning fondness for underdogs. Besides that, in wines I’ve also often been attracted to vintages that have been overshadowed by harvests more highly reputed or more vigorously hyped immediately before or after them.
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This penchant started way back when the 1966 vintage in Bordeaux and Burgundy was so ballyhooed that the next few vintages of both were barely able to find a market. I was just beginning to learn my way in wine back then, and those ‘66s, especially in Bordeaux, priced themselves clear out of my league – so I bought and drank the much less esteemed 1967s. And I continued to do so, very happily, for many years.

Those ‘67s were lovely wines, no matter which bank of the Gironde or what commune they came from. They were medium-bodied, balanced, and elegant, with wonderful typicity – pitch-perfect fidelity to their soils and grapes. Eventually, I caught up with a few of those much-ballyhooed ‘66s, and they were indeed wonderful wines. But they were wonderful in the way of very special vintages: the particular character of that great harvest dominated every other aspect of the wines.

So the ‘67s were perfect for me at that stage of my wine appreciation: Not only were they pleasurably drinkable and much more adaptable to more dining circumstances, but because of their typicity, they were much more educational. I learned more about the wines of Bordeaux from them than I ever could have from a whole suite of those exceptional ‘66s, and at far less expense.

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And by this commodious vicus of recirculation, I arrive at Brunello 2011. Poor-relation 2011 Brunello is bracketed by two greater vintages, 2010 and 2012. The Brunello Consorzio awarded both those vintages five stars, its highest ranking, while it gave 2011 only four, thereby disproving my private theory that the Consorzio always gave every vintage five stars, and immediately arousing the suspicion of every cynical wine journalist that 2011 must be pretty poor indeed, if even the Consorzio wouldn’t give it five stars.

My ingrained underdog sympathy quickly kicked in, however, and I tasted a few bottles of 2011, and guess what?  They were pretty good, and considerably less expensive than either 2010 or 2012 – so I bought a few bottles of several different estates, and put them away to let them rest and mature. Now, ten years on, seemed a very good time to see how they’re doing. They should certainly be past their dumb phase, and – if they are as good as I hoped – just starting to display some mature flavors.
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The first bottle I tried was from Ciacci Piccolomini d’Aragona, which is about as aristocratic a name as one can encounter in Montalcino. For many years, the property belonged to descendants of Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini – Pope Pius II – a Renaissance pontiff who was, among other things, responsible for creating the harmonious central piazza of the nearby town of Pienza (his birthplace). A few decades ago, the last survivor of the family willed the Montalcino property to its long-time winemaker, in whose family it has been ever since. With that much history in every bottle, I hoped for much from my theoretically lowly 2011.

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Not to prolong suspense, let me just say the results were mixed. The wine was good, maybe even very good, but not brilliant. My hopes were probably unreasonable. The wine showed some very characteristic Brunello features: a good nose of berries and underbrush; an initial rush of almost-bitter dark cherry flavors, younger than I had expected, round, balanced, and smooth in the mouth – but definitely rustic rather than in any way elegant. Sangiovese grosso indeed, I thought as I drank it.
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Mildly disappointed but undeterred, at the following night’s dinner I tried another bottle, this time from Col d’Orcia. This is another historic Montalcino property, now directed by Count Francesco Marone Cinzano, a man I knew to be equally passionately committed to his wines and to preserving the environment. The estate has been completely organic since 2010.

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This 2011 bottle was wonderful from the get-go: bright, fragrant, and fresh, with mixed dark berries on the nose and big, round, black cherry flavors in the mouth; structured beautifully with good acidity and soft tannins, mouth-filling but not at all heavy. This was a classic Brunello, as good as one can hope for, no matter how many stars the vintage was given.
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Now seriously encouraged, I thought to try one more example of 2011, so a few nights later I opened a bottle of Lisini. Lisini is for some Brunello lovers almost a cult wine. Made by a family with five centuries of roots in Montalcino and Chianti, and crafted in the most traditional manner, Lisini’s wines are for many experts the epitome of Brunello, the model of what Montalcino’s wines should be. This, I hoped, would be a real treat.

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Well, it was, but it wasn’t the perfect wine that its most ardent fans would expect.

It started with an intriguing, slightly tarry note in its aroma. A lovely dark cherry palate followed, smooth and round, with soft tannins and a long finish – unquestionably fine drinking. I’d call it a country gentleman of a wine. Italians would probably describe it as rustico-elegante, which is a useful phrase that I wish had a good English equivalent.

Many Brunello fans would argue that that is exactly what Brunello should be, and that is an opinion I respect but do not share. I prefer the greater elegance shown by the Col d’Orcia bottle, which I hope is an opinion that Lisini fans will respect even if they don’t share. When we are judging wines of this caliber, personal preferences loom large – even when we’re dealing with a supposedly “lesser” vintage like 2011. I’m very pleased with the way all three of these wines showed, and I’m glad I’ve got a few more 2011s squirreled away to comfort my (already upon me) old age.
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And a final word to the wise: While not all underdogs reward our support, enough “lesser vintages” do to make it a good policy to try them for yourself. Remember: You only taste with your own mouth – not mine or any other wine writer’s.

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Old Stones and Young Wines: A Week in Rome

A week in Rome, of course, is not enough to justify any sort of generalization about its current wine scene, and a person of any intelligence wouldn’t even attempt that. Nevertheless, here I am.
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Generalization #1 : The Roman thirst for young wines is unquenchable.

This has been true for years, probably decades, maybe centuries. It seems to be grandfathered into Roman genes, along with an ability to remain casual about the venerable antiquities they live among. However antique the ambiance, it is next to impossible to find a mature bottle of wine in an authentically Roman restaurant.

There may be a few (probably Michelin-starred) exceptions to this, but I think I’m on safe ground here: young wines – not just whites but also reds – are the rule in Rome. Many of these are very fine wines, though they may be a decade yet from what I would think of as true drinkability. 2021 is fine for Frascati, less so for Jermann’s Vinnae, while 2016 is barely acceptable for a fine red like Faro’s Rosso del Soprano, the oldest red we were able to get our hands on during our most recent visit to Rome.

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Generalization #2: The quality of wine in Roman restaurants is higher now than ever before in my lifetime.

And that’s a good many years of visiting Rome. Diane and I were everywhere impressed by the level of wine being offered at even the simplest local restaurants. And I am not talking great expense here: wine prices in Roman restaurants are astonishingly reasonable, especially to one fresh from the 300%, 400%, and 500% mark-ups of New York eateries. I don’t think we paid over €65 for any bottle all week long – and we were not seeking to economize.
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Generalization #3: The level of wine knowledge among restaurant staff has never been higher or more widespread.

I’m not talking here just about wine specialists, like L’Angolo Divino or Cul de Sac, but about classic Roman restaurants like Due Ladroni or Matricianella, where well-informed waiters can provide really helpful information about their wines. I can only imagine how useful and reassuring this must be to first-time travelers to Rome, or to Italian wine novices. I know that in my first trips to Rome I would have appreciated having that range of expertise available.
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Generalization #4: The variety of Italian wine available in Rome has never been greater. We’ve come a far cry from the days when asking for something beyond generic rosso elicited only Chianti – no details, no further specification – as an answer. Our choices were everywhere generous.
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So what did we drink? All the wines whose labels appear above, for starters.

Also, several different producers’ Cesanese, all very fine and very appropriate as a match for many Roman dishes. Cesanese is the traditional red grape of Lazio, and it is enjoying a renaissance these days. You could try any being offered: They are all delicious, and even though Cesanese can take aging, it isn’t hurt by being drunk young.

From farther afield, we enjoyed several of Jermann’s lovely Friuli whites, particularly a robust Vinnae (Ribolla gialla) and especially Capo Martino, an imaginative blend of everything from Chardonnay to Picolit.
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From the other end of Italy, from near Etna, we enjoyed a lovely red of very local Sicilian varieties, Palari’s Rosso del Soprano – supposedly its second wine, but in some vintages even better than its Faro. Our wine was a barely seven-year-old, a 2016. This may have been the best red of the trip.
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I say “may,” because a lovely Campanian red, Luigi Tecce’s Satyricon, gives it a run for the money. This is a 100% Aglianico from the Campi Taurasini area in the high hills around Avellino, and despite being very young – 2019 – it was a substantial wine with deep, intense flavors.  I can only imagine what it will be like in ten years.

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The best white? I should say that luscious Capo Martino, but I’m sorely tempted by several almost nameless Frascatis we had with various lunches. Frascati, like Cesanese, is a traditional wine of Rome, and like Cesanese, it is enjoying a real resurgence of quality. Light, aromatic, gently floral and mineral, it refreshes and revives and provides the kind of simple palatal pleasure that for many people lives in memory as the real taste of Rome.

BTW, If you’d like to see some of the things we ate on that week in Rome, take a look at this post on Diane’s blog.

 

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Beni di Batasiolo: A Barolo Family

I Beni di Batasiolo is the name of a family firm of Barolo producers, and a very accurate name it is. Beni are what we would call estates or properties, in this case specifically cru vineyards, and the Batasiolo family operates several of them, which it vinifies separately as quite distinctive single-vineyard bottlings. These include Vigneto Bofani in Bussia; the equally well known Brunate in La Morra; Cerequio, also in La Morra; Boscareto in Serralunga; and Briccolina, also in Serralunga.

That’s a nice family of wines indeed, so when Fiorenzo Dogliani, the proprietor and president of the firm, and Palm Bay, its American importer, held a comparative tasting of all these crus I was very happy to attend. That was one of the best decisions I’ve made lately: The event was both enjoyable and illuminating.

That was not only because of the crus involved but also because of the vintage to be shown: 2013. This was a great Nebbiolo vintage, and Batasiolo, which likes to hold back its wines until they are readier to drink than most Barolo new releases (before Covid, it sold primarily to restaurants), was just now releasing 2013s. Lucky me.

Not entirely by the way, Mr. Dogliani, who was presenting the wines, mentioned that his 2022 vintage is “fantastic,” though he couldn’t predict when it will be market-ready. Nebbiolo, he said, is greatly benefitting from Piedmont’s warming climate. That’s at least one spot where global warming is doing us some good.

Before we began the red wine tasting, we sipped a lovely Gavi di Gavi, Batasiolo’s 2021 Granée, a really fine Cortese – saline, mineral-inflected, and sapid, and a great palate-bracer to prepare us for the battery of red wines. Then to work.
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First up was Barolo Bussia Vigneto Bofani (unless I mention otherwise, all the reds I tasted were 2013 vintage).

This was an auspicious beginning, a lovely Barolo, with a deep, dark-cherry aroma, medium-weight in the mouth, with flavors of cherries and undergrowth, beautifully balanced. Abundant tannins, nicely softened by time and held in check by a lively acidity.
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The next wine was from Brunate, perhaps the most celebrated site in La Morra.

It was markedly different from the preceding Monforte d’Alba wine – higher-toned in both aroma and taste, and showing more basic black cherry flavors. It too was beautifully balanced – that would turn out to be almost a Batasiolo signature – even though it felt bigger in the mouth than the Bofani.
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The third bottle was Cerequio, another La Morra wine. Despite Cerequio’s great reputation, I’ve never been a big fan of its wines. They have always seemed to me a little lacking, almost a bit hollow at the core. Well, this bottle changed my mind about that: It was the best Cerequio I’ve ever had, excellent Barolo in every respect, from its cherry and cedar nose through to its very long, fresh finish.

Batasiolo’s own note says “the Barolos from this vineyard are a lighter style, perfumed and velvety, with exceptionally long ageability.” That seems quite right to me.
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The next example was Boscareto, from Serralunga d’Alba. Batasiolo says this vineyard “produces a bold style of Barolo that is elegant with great body.”  Dogliani described it as “our most traditional Barolo.”

I found it lovely on the palate, but I would describe it more as restrained and, as Dogliani rightly said, very elegant rather than bold, with a beautifully long finish, still quite fresh, and promising very long life. I agree that this is classic Barolo, and of a very high order.
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The last bottle was Briccolina, which Batasiolo describes as a “well-structured, full-bodied wine that can age for 15 to 20 years.”

It is the only one of Batasiolo’s Barolos that spends any time in barriques, which I hasten to say I could not taste in the wine – so much the better!  While this is not a vineyard I am at all familiar with, this seemed to me quite a classic Barolo, sprightly and balanced, with a lovely nose and palate.

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The final wine of the tasting was one that contravened Batasiolo’s estimate of a 15- to 20-year life span for Briccolina: It was a Briccolina 1996, and it was a great wine. Lively, elegant, and fine, with an ethereal nose, a beautiful Barolo palate, and an incredibly long finish, this was the first wine of the day that I, with my fondness for mature wine, regarded as really ready to drink, with years of life still before it. There couldn’t have been a better way to end the tasting, or to show what Batasiolo’s wines are capable of.

For those of you who might want to try this experience for yourself: Batasiolo will be shipping six-packs of this tasting (the five 2013s and the 2021 Gavi) to the US very soon.

 

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At the Heart of Campanian White Wine: Donnachiara

I’ve never made any secret of my fondness for the wines of Campania. I think the whites in particular, fermented from indigenous varieties, stand among the best in Italy. And of them – Campania is rich in indigenous grapes – I think those of the Irpinia area of Avellino province – Fiano di Avellino and Greco di Tufo – deserve to rank among world-class wines.

Both these wines are vinified from ancient varieties cultivated high in the hills east of Naples on decayed volcanic soils rich in mineral traces. The combination of soil, variety, and the microclimate of those hills produces wines of a character and quality impossible to duplicate.

A few weeks ago, I and several other journalists enjoyed a tasting of these wines with Ilaria Petitto, the CEO of Donnachiara, a winery located in Montefalcione, right in the heart of this great white wine zone. I’ve known Donnachiara’s wine for years now, and from my very first taste what I’ve admired most about them is their pitch-perfect typicity.

To be sure, Donnachiara’s wines reflect the changes each different growing season brings. But underlying that – or overriding it is perhaps more accurate – the distinct character of Fiano di Avellino and of Greco di Tufo is always apparent in them: the floral and hazelnut scents of the Fiano, its lightness and elegance on the palate; the herbal and mineral aromas of the Greco, its greater weight and hint of oiliness in the mouth.

Only a few Fiano and Greco producers bottle both a classic wine and a cru version, so it was particularly instructive to have them presented side-by-side at this tasting. Its main focus was two pairs of white wines:

• Fiano di Avellino 2021 and Empatia Fiano di Avellino 2021
• Greco di Tufo 2021 and Aletheia Greco di Tufo Riserva 2020.

All four wines are DOCG; the second wine of each pair was a single-vineyard selection. All four were superb.

The basic Fiano was spot on: lovely floral nose, smooth body and mouth feel, charming and elegant. This was a Fiano I could happily drink all the time – had I not tasted the Empatia right alongside it. That basic Fiano was fine, but the Empatia was truly exceptional, raising all of Fiano’s virtues to another level. To top it all off, these wines appear on the American market for as little as $18 and $21!

Similarly, the basic Greco di Tufo was classic: a slightly oily mouth feel, scents and tastes of undergrowth and mushrooms and mineral, a very long finish – simply a completely enjoyable white wine. The Aletheia had the same character, only more so, with more intense aromas and more concentrated flavors. I felt it needs a little more time to pull itself together, even though it is evidently a great wine.

If you’re not familiar with these two wines, it’s worth knowing that they are among the Italian white varieties that most reward aging. Fans of each will argue about which ages better.

I don’t have a definitive opinion on that. I’ve had 30-year-old bottles of both, and they were wonderful – still live, with their initial fruit flavors evolved into deeper, more complex harmonies of woodsy, undergrowthy, mushroomy, and mineral elements, all harmoniously merged. But I just find it very hard to keep Fiano and Greco – especially Donnachiara’s – long enough to mature to that stage because they are so good right from the start.

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A Top Tier Barolo Estate: Elvio Cogno

The Cogno winery is probably not as familiar to most Barolo fans as names like Mascarello or Conterno, but in my opinion, it’s in the same league, right up there with the best of Alba’s elite. The name it bears, Elvio Cogno, is the name of its founder, a top-notch winemaker who many decades ago left his position at Marcarini, where he had been responsible for some of its finest vintages, to establish his own winery on a prime hilltop in Novello. That’s probably the least known of Barolo’s communes, but the Cogno winery has put it on the map.
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Cogno’s winemaker, for some time now, has been Valter Fissore, Elvio’s son-in-law. With his wife Nadia, they have kept Elvio’s spirit alive, and if anything have raised the quality of the wines. This is a winery that stands in the top tier of Piedmont accomplishment.

I don’t say that lightly, but every time I pour a Cogno wine, I taste the truth of it. These are wines of grace and elegance wrapped around depth and power. Classic Barolo aromas and flavors, to be sure, but also layers of them, so each sip seems to open up a new vista. That’s good grapes, good terroir, and masterly winemaking.

Cogno has many claims to fame, but not the least is that it produces the only 100% Nebbiolo Rosé in the Piedmont. That’s not the color of the wine: it’s the name of the grape. The Nebbiolo clone situation is beyond complex and bordering on bewildering, with the possibilities of numerous sub-varieties compounded by a jumble of regional names for each of them.

For years, orthodoxy held that there were three main clones: Nebbiolo Lampia, Nebbiolo Michet, and Nebbiolo Rosé.

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That apple cart was thoroughly upset about ten years ago, when ampelographical research established that Nebbiolo Rosé was definitely not a clone of Nebbiolo but a whole separate variety, perhaps even a parent of Lampia (of which Michet now seems to be a genetic variant). This is a situation that most wine journalists have simply chosen to ignore – as have, apparently, all the official wine bodies, as no Barolo containing Rosé has yet to be declassified.

Cogno’s Vigna Elena still sports its Barolo DOCG, so I guess the tacit agreement is that Rosé still counts as Nebbiolo. Except for Vigna Elena, Rosé, though beautifully fragrant, has only ever been a small fraction of most producers’ Barolo. That’s because of its lighter color, long regarded as a serious flaw in a red wine. We are happily over that particular fetish and can now appreciate the special beauty of a wine like Vigna Elena.

I had the pleasure of verifying that for myself just a few nights ago, when Diane prepared a special dinner as a setting for an – as it turned out to be – equally special bottle of Cogno’s Barolo Vigna Elena 2004.
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I was just bowled over by this wine. Its aroma popped out the second I started pouring it, a rich, intense fragrance of black cherry and black raspberry. Those flavors and that intensity continued on the palate. There, it felt light-bodied, but at the same time mouth-filling and deep, with a long, long finish of dried fruits. The black cherry component became more and more prominent as the wine opened in the glass.

This Vigna Elena was perfectly at home with our first course, a country paté, and it loved the rare beef that followed. With the cheese course – a very young Tuscan Pecorino and a mature Taleggio – it got all fat and sassy. At no point did I get the impression that this wine had yet reached its peak:  There was just so much freshness to its fruit that I would guess that it is still at least ten years away from full maturity, maybe more. This was simply a great bottle of Barolo. Hats off to Valter and Nadia.

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The Elvio Cogno winery is no one-trick pony: It makes the whole line of Langhe wines – several different Barolos beyond Vigna Elena, a Barbaresco, an estimable Langhe Nebbiolo Montegrilli*, a Dolcetto, and an eye-opening Barbera from pre-phylloxera vines, a real rarity in this part of the wine world. Valter Fissore has even embarked on an effort to save one of Piedmont’s rare, endangered white grapes of quality, Nascetta, which Cogno bottles as Anas-Cëtta. It’s a bit of an oddity in this land of red wines, but quite intriguing, and well worth trying. As is, in my opinion, anything under the Cogno label.

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*  Shortly after I finished drafting this post, I discovered a bottle of Cogno’s 2005 Montegrilli Nebbiolo that I had inadvertently stored away – inadvertently because I usually think of the ideal drinking window for Langhe Nebbiolo as being 4 to 8 years from harvest. I don’t think of it as a wine for long keeping and maturation. Boy, was I wrong. I have seriously underestimated Nebbiolo, or Cogno, or both. I opened this bottle – without any great expectations – for a simple weekday dinner, and it was wonderful. At 17 years of age, it was still quite live and enjoyable, very elegant on the palate and just brimming with characteristic Nebbiolo flavors. If I had been tasting it blind, I would have thought it a good Barolo just beginning to mature. Another tip of the hat to Valter and Nadia!

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Rocca delle Macìe: Chianti for Grown-ups

The Chianti Classico zone grows titles of nobility as profusely as it does vines, and the two are nowadays closely linked. Hundreds of years ago, marchesi, baroni, even principi may have earned their rank by successful careers as Florentine merchants or Lombard warlords, but nowadays they’re all winemakers, and most of them quite famous and accomplished as such. Which makes it all the more surprising and noteworthy to find that one of the now most prestigious and forward of Chianti Classico wineries is, by the standards of this historic zone, a rank newcomer, founded by an untitled “foreigner” – i.e., a non-Tuscan.

I am referring to Rocca delle Macìe, whose wines I suspect most of my readers have tasted and enjoyed. Founded in 1973 by Italo Zingarelli, a very successful Roman movie producer who had a lifelong dream of vines and wines, Rocca delle Macìe started with 93 run-down hectares, only two of which were in vines. From this less-than-inspiring beginning, the Zingarelli family has built up an estate that now covers over 200 hectares of vines and 54 more of olives spread over six locales, plus an elegant relais hotel.

Italo’s son Sergio, who has just finished a term as president of the Chianti Classico Consorzio, is now running the family business, and Rocca delle Macìe has become a fixture of the Chianti Classico landscape.

A little over 20 years ago, the family undertook a major renovation of the vineyards, seeking better microclimate/soil/Sangiovese clone matches for maximum quality in their wines. One result was the designation of the Le Terrazze vineyard in Castellina, which they consider their finest vineyard, as the source of their Chianti Classico Gran Selezione Sergio Zingarelli. Just recently, I was able to taste nine vintages of that wine, courtesy of Rocca delle Macìe’s American importer Palm Bay.

This was a very illuminating as well as enjoyable experience. The wines shown started with the 2010 vintage, followed by 2011, ‘12, ‘13, ‘14, ‘15, ‘16, ‘17, and ’18 – no cherry-picking of only fine vintages, but an honest display of nearly a decade of Gran Selezione wines. That line-up allowed us tasters to trace the evolution of Sangiovese from year to year, as well as to experience the continuity of the vineyard’s and the family’s style. The latter is quite classic. These wines, even in the lesser vintages, all showed beautiful Sangiovese character, with great restraint – no fruit bombs here – and balance. My thought at the time was that these are Chiantis for grown-ups, and I’ll stand by that.

Here are some brief notes on the wines, all Sergio Zingarelli Chianti Classico Gran Selezione DOCG, in the order we tasted them.

2010: Lovely wild cherry aroma; fine, elegant palate. Very nice Sangiovese acidity under-strapped by soft wood tannins. Long finish. A great vintage and a harmonious wine.

2011: A difficult hot, dry summer grudgingly yielded a good but not excellent wine, smooth and round in the mouth, but with a slightly cellar-y aroma. This vintage demanded much care and effort in the field and in the cellar.

2012:  Similar to the 2011, but slightly smoother and softer on the palate. Not great, but good.

2013: A step up from the preceding two vintages. Rounder and fresher both in the nose and on the palate. More pleasing and immediately enjoyable.

2014: Darker and more concentrated than the ’13, with its tannins nicely softened. Enjoyable now, with a good fruity finish. All the preceding vintages had been 90% Sangiovese blended with 10% Colorino; starting with 2014, this Gran Selezione became 100% Sangiovese.

2015: A good growing season makes a good vintage. This wine is very pretty, well-balanced and lively. You could almost call it perky.

2016: Not quite as fine as ’15, but still a lovely Chianti, with fine Sangiovese flavors and character. Opens beautifully in the glass.

2017: Very fresh smelling, with the palate equally fresh – dark cherry-ish flavors. A very young and pretty wine, from a growing season hot and dry, like ’11 and ’12. The vineyard team has clearly learned how to deal with that.

2018:  Smells more tannic, even though you’re not supposed to be able to smell tannin. Must be the new barrels. Big and soft, but still closed. It needs time, but it should be fine. Sergio called it “a classic vintage for Sangiovese.”

All these wines showed well, though 2010, 2015, 2016, and 2018 stood out. It was almost a shame to have started with the 2010, since it was the only one of these vintages that was, for this lover of mature wines, truly ready to drink. But that’s why cellars were invented.

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Grignolino Rising

Grignolino is the name of an uncommon indigenous Italian grape variety and the wine it makes. Both, obscure for many years, are starting to cause a bit of a stir in wine circles.

It’s an ancient variety, with solid documentation of its presence and importance back to the Middle Ages: In all probability, it’s much older than that. Native to the Monferrato zone in the Piedmont, it is now almost rare, though it was once one of the most widely grown varieties and most prestigious wines of that whole area of Italy – a zone that now includes the far more famous Barolo, Barbaresco, and Barbera. Indeed, many of the fields that now grow Barbera were once the home of Grignolino, which has been steadily ousted by that heartier and more prolifically bearing variety.

Grignolino grape clusters

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It’s a wonder to me that any Grignolino is cultivated at all. Everything I read about makes it sound like a horror of a grape to grow. In her Wine Grapes, Jancis Robinson, who shows almost no regard for the variety, notes that it ripens unevenly and is “susceptible to powdery mildew and especially to botrytis bunch rot and sour rot.”

Ian d’Agata, who likes Grignolino’s wines, gives more details about its problems in his Native Wine Grapes of Italy, saying:

• it needs very sunny sites, which puts it in direct competition with more profitable varieties like Nebbiolo, and “it also needs well-ventilated sites, to ward off the risk of rot due to its compact bunch;”
• it “has a huge amount of intravarietal variability;”
• “many of the older grapevines are also virus-affected, and the cultivars suffer from millerandage;”
• it “succumbs easily to common grapevine diseases and yields generally very little juice.”

Given all that, you might wonder why anyone goes to the trouble of growing it.

Yet many winemakers I’ve spoken to have a real fondness for the variety. Bartolo Mascarello and Pio Boffa, I remember, had an affection for the wine, and both made splendid examples of it. Boffa felt strongly that it formed an important element in Pio Cesare’s identity as an authentic and traditional Piedmontese winery.

Because of growers like Mascarello and Pio Cesare, small but significant pockets of Grignolino still survive, principally in the Monferrato zone, and there is now a small but significant revival of interest in the grape. That’s because the wine it makes is, at its best, distinctive and distinguished. A good majority of the wine lovers who get a chance to taste it love it.

Ian d’Agata, for instance, rhapsodizes about it. He calls it “a lovely variety, one of the prettiest in Italy” and says it exudes “a lovely aroma of fresh flowers, small red berries . . . and spices” and “it is blessed with high, refreshing acidity and crisp tannins that leave the palate feeling fresh and clean.”

That touches some of the important bases for Grignolino’s virtues, but to my mind it also leaves out some important considerations. It makes Grignolino seem too simply pretty, too frail. For sure, Grignolino is the very opposite of a powerhouse wine: grace and nuance are what it is about. But it doesn’t lack guts.

A bottle of Oreste Buzio’s 2020 Grignolino del Monferrato Casalese that I opened last week showed a lovely light strawberry-ish color and aroma. In the mouth, it was strawberry-ish too: light and refreshing, but still with evident depth and complexity. It made a delightful dinner companion to a grilled scamorza first course and was equally at home with a dish of pasta all’amatriciana.
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It would be easy to describe Grignolino as a perfect summer wine, but that would underestimate it severely: Its big acidity and equally big tannin make it adaptable to all sorts of food, as I found when opening another Grignolino, a bottle of La Casaccia’s Poggeto, also Grignolino del Monferrato Casalese, also 2020.

Visually, aromatically, and palatally, this was a perfect example of the breed. Though not an optimum companion to a rare steak, it dealt reasonably with the meat, and then bloomed with the cheese course. It almost made love to a delicious, runny Robiola. And it even matched comfortably with the plum cake that followed. This is a fine, versatile wine, not only at home with dishes of all sorts, but also completely enjoyable all by itself.
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You may happen on a bottle of Grignolino that is very dark, perhaps even with high alcohol, but that is an aberration. The classic Grignolino is light in color, just around 13 degrees of alcohol, and easy and refreshing on the palate, yet structured and substantial with all that acidity and tannin. It’s an odd red wine, an outlier, a maverick – maybe even a paradox. That’s all part of its considerable charm.

Despite the growing interest in Grignolino, there is still not a lot of it even in Italy, so it won’t be easy to find in the US. If you come across one, do try it. It’s very different from most of the red wines you’re used to – and we know what a great pleasure it is to find a new wine to add to our repertory.

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“Why Do We Have 37 Brandies?”

Back during the annual ritual known as spring cleaning – misnamed, I think: It should more properly be called spring messing – Diane asked me that question. I was momentarily dumbfounded, and all I managed to say was a lame “37?”

Many years ago, when she asked me a similar question – “Why do we have 44 bottles of grappa?” – I was able to confidently and truthfully say “Because I’m working on a big article on grappa for Decanter.”

That wasn’t the whole truth, as anyone who knows my fondness for grappa understands, but it was at least a plausible cover for my shameless indulgence. Back then, I could honestly claim to be the most important proponent of grappa in the US: I had published the first North American article about grappa back in the 80s, in Attenzione, and written about it in several other magazines as well – so I could, with a straight face, say I had a professional interest in that distillate.

But now that I am no longer an active wine journalist (except for this blog), how could I explain needing so many brandies?

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Had I not been taken by surprise, the answer was easy, really: They all have different uses, different niches that they fill. Just as I am passionate about matching a wine with food that will show it at its best (and vice versa), so am I interested in choosing the digestivo that will best complement the dinner I’ve just enjoyed.

That’s the real key for me: Call them brandies or digestivi or after-dinner drinks, whether it’s grappa or cognac or armagnac or marc, malt whiskies or curaçao or chartreuse, whatever their name, their function for me is to complete my meal, to round off the whole culinary experience. That may sound pompous, but it tends to be delicious – and figuring it all out is sheer fun.

So: Shameless self-indulgence once again, with a slight admixture of self-education. As Brillat-Savarin so well understood, a true gastronaut’s work is never done.

You can be forgiven for wondering what all those bottles are, and what niches I think they fill. A fair enough question, so here’s a broad rundown. For simplicity’s sake, let’s divide them, as those in the liquor trades often do, into “white goods” and “brown goods.”

White goods consist primarily of my beloved grappas, of which I like to keep a goodly selection on hand – grappas of Barbera and Dolcetto and Nebbiolo, Tuscan grappas, even southern Italian grappas, from Campania and Calabria and Sicily, all regions where this originally northern drink has gotten a firm hold.
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Each of these grappas differs from the others in basic ways, having the aromas and characters of the very different grapes from which they are made, and so meshing with very different meals. I take almost as much pleasure in making the right match as I do in actually drinking the grappa.

This category also includes tequilas, a class of drinks that I have been late in coming to appreciate, as well as eaux de vie of mirabelle, poire, and/or framboise, all offering a small explosion of fruit aromas and flavors. Served ice-cold, they can be by themselves a perfect summer dessert.
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Then we come to the brown goods, which will be more familiar to most people than the white. These may include barrel-aged grappas, but mostly they are cognac, armagnac, and an occasional marc. Burgundy and various appellations of the Rhône are my usual sources for marc.

I like to keep on hand a basic cognac and armagnac, as well as better bottle or two – a good vintage of armagnac, and for cognac a reliable producer’s more rarefied selection of vintages or areas of growth, such as Grand Champagne or Borderies. And not to forget Spanish brandies, which are very different in character from their French counterparts.
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Finally, I always need to have a few single malt scotches on hand, and Diane is occasionally fond of an herbal liqueur or plum brandy.
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Those bottles arm me for most contingencies and pretty much any sort of cooking my fair bride may wish to do; and that gives me a great sense of security and comfort, a very desirable condition for the aging wino. Also – I confess to a bit of showmanship – at the end of a dinner party, I like to set out 4 to 6 different bottles for our guests (and ourselves) to sniff and choose from. And that’s why we have 37 – or whatever the number may be now – bottles of brandy.

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P.S. from Diane, who has just counted them: It’s only 29 now. Poor baby!

P.P.S. from Tom: I must do something about that!

 

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Monumental Barolo: Fontanafredda

How many times have I walked up Fifth Avenue in the shadow of the Empire State Building and never even noticed it was there? Familiarity may not breed contempt, but it sure fosters inattention. I was made acutely aware of that this week, when I pulled out a bottle of Fontanafredda’s Vigna La Rosa for dinner with some friends.
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It was a 2004, and it was just lovely – not huge (Fontanafredda never is), but velvety in the mouth, with restrained dried cherry/berry and sottobosco flavors, and a long, polished finish. It struck me, as I was telling our guests a little about the wine, how much I take Fontanafredda for granted, and how little attention I pay it. It’s more than time that I made up for that sin of omission.

Fontanafredda is one of Piedmont’s largest and most historic wineries. It’s sited on prime land in the commune of Serralunga, which gives it some major advantages to start with: That is serious Barolo country. Wine people love a good story, and Fontanafredda has one of the best: It was founded by the first king of Italy, Vittorio Emanuele – he of the huge wedding-cake monument in Rome – himself. In 1858 he bought the property and set up a villa on it for the love of his life, his then mistress and later second wife, Rosa Vercellana, La Bella Rosina, she for whom the firm’s home – and best – vineyard is now named.
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Serious wine production on the estate was instituted by their son, Emanuele Alberto, Count of Mirafiore. He pioneered in promoting Barolo and insisted on quality in his wines. Both the pioneering and the pursuit of quality have marked Fontanafredda ever since, through all the vicissitudes of phylloxera and the great depression, two world wars, and several changes of ownership. The estate is now firmly in Piedmontese hands, having been taken over by Oscar Farinetti, the proprietor of Eataly, and a very serious promoter of all gustatory things Piedmontese.

Fontanafredda now consists of 120 acres of vineyards, all certified organic, though not all on the home property. There are parcels in Dogliani and other places for the production of Barbaresco, Dolcetto, Barbera, Nebbiolo Langhe, and other typical Piedmontese wines both red and white. But the main focus of Fontanafredda – especially in the home vineyards – is Barolo..

The firm bottles several different Barolos, ranging from its classic blend, from several vineyards; through a commune wine, Serralunga d’Alba; to the individual crus, Vigneti Pararfada, La Delizia, La Villa, Lazzarito, and La Rosa. La Rosa should be considered the flagship wine, though Lazzarito can run it a very close second. All are very traditional Barolos, very well tended in the fields and the cellars, and each aged in a different regimen of skin contact, malolactic fermentation, and selection of woods for different periods. Despite its size, this is a very hands-on operation, as the consistently high quality of all the wines shows.
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Anyone trying to learn the classic contours of Barolo will find a few bottles of Fontanafredda a very valuable lesson: a short course in history and connoisseurship.

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Color Me Surprised and Pleased: Selvapiana Fornace 2004

Indeed, surprised and pleased were exactly what I felt from my first taste of this relatively obscure bottle from Selvapiana.
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Selvapiana is a fine Chianti estate, probably the finest not in the Classico zone. It lies within the Rufina zone, northeast of Florence, and that area is totally different, climatically and geographically, from the Classico. It is hillier, and its hills are steeper and rougher than the long-domesticated ones that lie between Florence and Siena, the historical Chianti Classico zone.
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The Rufina zone is more heavily forested, and its forests are pines, not the decorous cypresses of Tuscan postcards. What grow beneath those pines are mountain laurels, clearly indicating a more acidic soil and a very different climate from that of the Classico zone. Needless to say, the wines that Sangiovese produces here are also different from the Classicos: they are bigger, fuller, with darker-toned fruit. Some call them rustic, but the best of them show no rusticity. Rather, they are graceful country folk, with all the strength and natural elegance that implies.
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For obvious reasons, I’ve always admired Selvapiana’s Chiantis. The estate’s decades-long relationship with consulting enologist Franco Bernabei, one of the acknowledged masters of Tuscan wine, has always coaxed the best from its Sangiovese. The wine Selvapiana calls Fornace (from the vineyard where it originates) has always been for me another matter, however.

Fornace is Selvapiana’s Supertuscan, a blend of non-Italian grape varieties that was originally concocted back when Supertuscan was a hot category and every serious wine estate had to make one to show that it was au courant. I acquired my bottle long ago, when I was preparing an article about Selvapiana and the Rufina zone for some magazine or other. I’ve never really approved of the Supertuscans – I hated the name – so for the article I focused on the zone’s Italian varieties, put my bottle of Fornace away, and completely forgot about it. Until, just recently, Diane was making a recipe that originated at Selvapiana, and I wanted to serve a Selvapiana wine with it. Imagine my distress when I discovered I had none of the wonderful Chiantis on hand, and just this dusty bottle of a wine I distrusted. Arrgh!

Well, no choice: I wanted a Selvapiana wine and this was what I had, so off went its dust and out came its cork. Two hours of breathing, and then into the glass alongside Diane’s delightful pasta dish. As I said before, color me surprised and pleased: It was a wonderful wine. Vinified entirely from French varieties – 40% Cabernet sauvignon, 40% Merlot, and 20% Petit verdot, I believe – though I could swear I tasted a little Syrah pepper in it. No matter. At 18 years old it was a complete wine, big, round, harmonious, and deep. It didn’t taste typically Tuscan, but it didn’t taste Bordelaise either: It was a third thing, entirely its own category, and completely enjoyable. It has given me something to think about, in terms of my distaste for French varieties in Italy – and it has certainly deepened my already immense respect for Selvapiana.
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