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Archive for the ‘Piedmont’ Category

I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to try it. This 1973 Cavalotto Grignolino, #4 of the special horde dubbed Tom’s Treasures, has been calling to me ever since I bought it.

Grignolino has become, in my mind, an archetypal, maybe the archetypal, Piedmontese wine. It’s a very ancient grape. Back in the 13th century, it was probably the most important grape in the whole Piedmont. Now it’s endangered and has almost disappeared, replaced largely by Barbera. But still, in the right place and the right hands, Grignolino is capable of yielding a lovely wine.

I have come to relish the variety, but I knew this was probably the riskiest of the bottles I chose. Grignolino is never a big wine, and it’s relatively low in alcohol, but it does have ample tannin and acidity, so there is a reasonable chance it could take some bottle age. As far as I knew, all the bottles I bought had been well cellared, and Cavalotto is a seriously good, traditionally minded winemaker. Who else would take the trouble these days to vinify Grignolino? So I had a fifty-fifty chance this 1973 would still be drinkable. Speriamo.

Well, I’m delighted to say that the wine was a complete winner from the moment I pulled the cork. A generous aroma floated out to greet me. A bit prune-y, to be sure, but definitely alive and welcoming, as its subsequent performance with our dinner amply showed.

The meal we were having that evening wasn’t designed to show off a Grignolino. The gaminess of the braised lamb shanks we were making wouldn’t really highlight its virtues. Grignolino is pale in color, light in body, and delicate and intriguing in flavor: not forceful, not a powerhouse. This one had only 12 degrees of alcohol and over 50 years of age, so no matter how alive it was, the lamb might overpower it. At least that’s what my last-minute jitters feared.

My worries were all unfounded. That ancient Grignolino more than held its own with the lamb shanks. It continued evolving and opening in the glass, as its initial pruneyness receded and surprisingly youthful fruit flavors came forward – cherry and currant and, very unexpectedly, strawberry.

We were bowled over by how much vitality this Grignolino showed, particularly when we tasted it with a cheese course. We had a young Manchego and a youngish Greyson, and the Grignolino showed its richest fruit with them. It never gave the slightest sign of fading or fatigue. From start to finish, it was a joy to drink.

I haven’t had much experience with mature Grignolino – very little, to be truthful – but this bottle taught me a lot. Biggest lesson: If I were several decades younger, I’d start cellaring Grignolino now.

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This wine – 1999 Conterno Barolo from the Bussia cru – tasted like the love child of Nebbiolo and velvet.

One dinner guest, on first sip, rightly called it youthful – which it was; it was also vital, and complex, and deep, and it evolved kaleidoscopically in our glasses as we progressed from a rich main course to a pair of fine cheeses. But I am getting way ahead of myself.

I don’t keep many magnums, because we rarely have occasion for them. I’m a wine drinker, not a wine collector. But a recent convocation of our octogenarian Gang of Six seemed an appropriate moment for a fine magnum – especially since the dinner we were making for it was La Finanziera, a Piedmontese tour de force of mostly innards. (Diane has written about the dish on her blog.)  On its home grounds of Italy’s Piedmont, the characteristic feature of La Finanziera is its inclusion of cockscombs, which the USDA will not allow us to buy. (Boos and hisses are appropriate here.)

We had originally conceived of this feast back in the depths of winter, but such is the mobility of our coevals that it took until early March to get all six of us together in New York at the same time. (I guess that’s a good sign, no?) For several days in advance, that big bottle of Barolo stood patiently – upright, to settle its sediment – on a very cool, shady windowsill, awaiting its moment.

Barolo fans will know that Poderi Aldo Conterno is one of the most prestigious of the whole panoply of Barolo vignerons. The three brothers now running the farm work 25 wonderful hectares in the heart of Monforte d’Alba. The hillside of Bussia ranks among the best vineyard sites in the entire Barolo zone – so my magnum came with an impressive provenance.

Barolo fans will also know that 1999 was one of the string of top-flight vintages with which Piedmont rang down the curtain on the 20th century. I had been saving it for an occasion that would show it at its best. Now it had its moment, alongside an opulent dish it had grown up with, and for palates that would appreciate both it and the food. I was really looking forward to this.

Conterno’s Bussia did not disappoint in the slightest. From those first sips, arresting in their freshness, to the vigor with which it matched a fine Stilton and a luscious soft-ripening Brebirousse, it offered peak experiences. Each sip was slightly different from the last, as the wine evolved in the carafe and glass and as the accompanying food called out different components in it. It was a palatal – the only word I can think of to describe it – kaleidoscope.

Large formats like magnums are marvelous for allowing wines to preserve their youthful vitality and at the same time giving them room to grow. I’ve known that for a long time – but it’s also been a long time since I experienced it. All I can finally say, in the most esoteric winespeak, is: What a treat! Good wine, good food, good friends. What a treat!

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Among the small selection of older wines I acquired late last summer – promptly dubbed “Tom’s Treasures” by Diane – and squirreled away for special occasions, I thought I detected a slight leakage from the capsule of a bottle of 1976 Barbaresco from Produttori del Barbaresco. 1976 was almost 50 years ago, so if the cork was beginning to fail, it could spell doom for the wine. That possible leakage was enough to make me resolve to use that bottle at the first appropriate opportunity.

Well, Diane and I are pretty resourceful at manufacturing occasions for a good wine, so when I recently underwent two successful cataract surgeries, we decided the moment had arrived. We got a fine New York strip steak (thank you, Ottomanelli) and some good mushrooms to accompany it, pulled out of the freezer one of Diane’s excellent three-cheese tarts for a first course, and addressed the worrisome bottle.

Because the wine, if alive at all, might be very fragile, I didn’t pull the cork until we were ready to sit to dinner. It came out with no trouble and seemed sound enough, if quite evidently old. There was very little ullage, so I poured, and we proceeded. The wine was pale, but no paler than many younger Nebbiolos I’ve drunk. It had very little aroma. The first taste showed almost nothing: it didn’t seem dead, by any means, but it just wasn’t giving anything.

The very good news is that that changed quickly. That Barbaresco began opening in the glass, and did so steadily all through the meal. Its aroma, and the flavors on the palate, kept getting bigger and richer. By the time we had drunk that bottle as far down as we dared – there was a substantial layer of sediment – we were relishing a first-rate Piedmontese gem, Nebbiolo at its richest and best.

This was all the more remarkable not just because of this bottle’s age, but also because, according to my memory and all the charts I’ve been able to consult, 1976 wasn’t a very good year at all.

I’ve always admired the Produttori del Barbaresco, as some of the posts I’ve done already this year will attest, but my admiration for their work continues to grow. Bottles like this are monuments to old-school Piedmontese winemaking (in 1976, stainless steel tanks and temperature-controlled fermentation were still new wave in Piedmont) and to the amazing character of the Nebbiolo variety.

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A small teaser for those who follow such things: This bottle was #3 of my small trove of treasures. I have a few more yet to taste, including two Gattinaras (one from the legendary 1961 vintage), a classic Mastroberardino Taurasi, and a real curiosity – a 50 year-old Grignolino. So far, these wines all seem to have been stored very well, so my hopes are high. Stay tuned.

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Here’s a happy coincidence of subjects: one of my favorite “drink it every day with everything” wines and one of my favorite producers of almost the whole range of fine Piedmont wines. As you might easily guess, this post was triggered by the bottle in which the coincidence occurred, at dinner on a recent evening.

It had been a very cold, sunless, windy, “wintery mix” of a day, calling for a lot of time in the kitchen playing with stove and oven, as much to keep ourselves warm (the heat is less than tropical in our apartment) as to avoid that “trapped indoors” cabin fever feeling. Our menu featured three long-time favorite dishes, earlier versions of which Diane has written about in her own blog, should you be interested in seeing them:

Individual Cheese Tarts

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Honeycomb Tripe with Parmesan Cheese

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Pear Cake

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With that lush, comforting oven-braise of tripe in mind (I know: some of you are making yecch! sounds, but just taste it some time), I opened a 2021 Poderi Colla Barbera d’Alba Costa Bruna. Brilliant choice, Tom! The combination was wonderful: food and wine meshed perfectly to create a truly restorative, wonderfully enjoyable dinner.

Most Barbera d’Alba is enjoyable with a wide variety of foods, but Colla’s Barbera Costa Bruna is an exceptional wine – period, no qualifications. The Colla family (I’ve written about them before) knows its business: It has been making wine in Piedmont since the 1700s, and since the mid-twentieth century, under the leadership of the late Beppe Colla, it has been in the forefront of quality production of the most important Piedmont wines – Barolo, Barbaresco, Dolcetto, and Barbera d’Alba.

On its prestigious Barbaresco site, Roncaglie, it has what it refers to as “a jewel within a jewel,” Costa Bruna, a two-hectare field long planted with Barbera. How long, no one knows for sure, but best guesses put the oldest vines on the site at 90 or more years. Vines like that, on the kind of soils that turn Nebbiolo into glorious Barbaresco, yield wines of intensity, concentration, and, above all, elegance.

You read that right: I’m talking about elegance in a Barbera with no admixture of any other grape and no long new-oak regimen. I hate tasting notes, but contrary to my usual practice, I’m going to give you mine from that night:

  • Lovely deep garnet color. Great brambly, fruity Barbera aroma.
  • Big, round, and soft in the mouth, but with lively, invigorating acid.
  • Gorgeous complex fruit – very dark cherry, black currant and plum, hints of herbs and even some underbrush, with a very long finish.
  • Big and mouth-filling, but nevertheless light and elegant on the palate.

This Costa Bruna was fine and fresh with the little tarts of three kinds of cheese that we started dinner with. It loved the tripe, broadening and opening to match its richness. The last of the bottle even drank companionably with the homey, sweet, pear cake, leaving the two of us contentedly patting our stomachs and congratulating each other on a fine meal.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow: we’ve got Colla Barbera to keep us warm.

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Reinvigorated by my year-end respite, I want to start this new circle around the sun with a nice, succinct set of good tidings. Not peace on earth, alas, but good tidings nevertheless. To wit: It is impossible to overpraise the wines of Produttori del Barbaresco.

I’ve enjoyed several very fine bottles over the past few weeks (and one or two disappointments, to be sure: life is always a mixed bag), but the one bottle that really stood out for me amidst all my holiday indulgence was this: a 2005 Barbaresco from Produttori del Barbaresco.

That’s it: not a riserva, not a cru bottling – just the plain basic production from what has to be the finest cooperative winery in Italy. I know I’ve written here about the Produttori before, and I’m pretty sure that most of my readers have at least tasted some of their art, but this 2005 was just plain gorgeous. It was still fruit-forward in the manner of a vigorous young wine, but the fruit was mellow and maturing, and wrapped in a velvety, mid-weight body of perfectly balanced soft tannins and unassertive acidity.

When the 2005 Nebbiolo was first released, it did not seem an imposing vintage that promised very long life, as did the wines of 2004 and 2001. Rather, 2005 was soft and welcoming: Charming, I thought it at the time, and charming I still think it, but this is now the charm of wizardry rather than the charm of puppies. Rich and mouth-filling yet also elegant and light, this Produttori example of the vintage was a bottle that seduced and satisfied by both its paradoxes and its straightforwardness – unquestionably the most enjoyable bottle I drank from Thanksgiving to Twelfth Night.

I wish all us jolly survivors of 2023 many bottles like it, all through 2024 and beyond. Winemaker Aldo Vacca and all the growers of the Produttori, thank you most sincerely, and a very Happy New Year to you all!

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Just a quick report, before the memory fades: I wasn’t able to take notes at the time, since hostly duties demanded attention.

Over Labor Day weekend, Diane and I prepared what was intended to be a simple family dinner for a few friends. Somehow or other, while we weren’t looking, this supposedly easy meal grew into something more elaborate, which cried out for one of my recently acquired older Italian wines.

The one I chose was a 1987 Nervi Gattinara. Its neck level looked good, and there were no signs of seepage or leaking, so with what was probably overconfidence I proceeded to draw the surprisingly short cork. Did the winery not think this was a wine for long aging? Was the short cork an economy measure? Or hadn’t the fashion for long corks reached Gattinara by 1987? I would never know, but despite the cork’s shortness, its last quarter inch broke off and fell back into the wine. Worry, worry, worry.

The cork otherwise seemed quite sound, and so – happily – was the wine. Rich mountain Nebbiolo aromatics, a uniformly pale garnet color, and a wonderfully intriguing complex of flavors. No young fruit, but an abundance of woodsy and earthy elements, dominated by what Italians refer to as sottobosco notes and suggestions of mushrooms. It was gentle and smooth on the palate, and it drank almost too easily: I regretted not having a second bottle to back it up at the dinner party. Sic transit gloria mundi.

Anyhow, bottle #2 of my venturesome purchase showed beautifully. That is all I know this week, and all I need to know.

A Small Postscript

An ancillary pleasure my little trove of old bottles gives me is the delight of the wonderfully ornate labels Italian wines sported in the past, before minimalist design took over the world. Look again at this beauty, and at the label from my last post’s Barbera. These are relics from a simpler and happier time.

 

 

 

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About a month back, one of the wine shops I deal with offered a selection of older Italian wines from a private collection. It was a lengthy list, with a lot of interesting items on it, some of them quite pricey. But there were also a good number that didn’t demand a second mortgage, and – even though I know older wines with unknown (at least to me) provenance can be a very iffy proposition – I was intrigued.

So I consulted the Secretary of the Treasury (aka Diane) and cherry-picked half a dozen bottles, for which the Secretary found a wine-closet bin that she promptly labelled “Tom’s Treasures.” This 52-year-old Barbera d’Alba from Marchesi di Barolo is not the oldest of them, but it’s the first I’ve tried. It was an auspicious beginning: I hope the others are as good, and in as good condition.
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Taking advantage of an unusually cool spell in August, Diane braised some beef short ribs and we served a cheese course – dishes we haven’t had while the temperatures were high. Needless to say, these are good flavors to match with a not over-powerful red wine. They would be perfect for a young and youthfully exuberant Barbera, and should be still be welcoming to this quinquagenarian.

Naturally, I handled this 1971 bottle gingerly, even giving it a half an hour in the refrigerator to bring it down to a more proper cellar temperature. Not knowing how fragile the wine might be, I didn’t pull its cork until we sat to table: I’ve seen enough old wines fade to nothingness within minutes of pouring to do everything I could for us to taste whatever this one might have to give us.

The bottle’s condition had been encouraging – almost no ullage, wine level high in the neck, no signs of seepage or leakage. Blessedly, the cork came out smoothly and whole, and the aroma that followed it, while not the very familiar fruit of young Barbera, was still vivid and forceful, seemingly  not very likely to fade fast.

In the glass, the wine showed the classic coloration of mature Piedmont reds, a light garnet surrounded by distinct orange ring. In a Bordeaux wine, that coloration would signal the start of a requiem, but in Piedmont red wines it simply indicates that the wine is maturing properly. A swirl of the glass and a sniff yielded a big, surprisingly tarry, aroma: very much alive, however unexpected.

I was a bit puzzled by the first few tastes of the wine. It was definitely a good, mature wine, but I would have been hard put to identify it as Barbera. The flavors of many kinds of red wine tend to converge when mature, so this wasn’t totally surprising, if a bit disappointing.

But as the meal went on, and the wine opened more – I’d clearly worried needlessly about it fading – recognizable Barbera sour cherry begin to show, especially with the cheese course, which also foregrounded the classic Barbera acidity. That same acidity probably also accounted for the wine’s surprising vitality.

This was for me a delightful experience, as much for its palatal and intellectual pleasures as for its confirmation of my longtime belief in the amazing potential of the Barbera variety. It’s a great grape, and in the right hands – which Marchesi di Barolo’s certainly are – it is capable of great things.

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2001 Barolo: A Report

Notwithstanding the distressingly hot summer our world is enduring this year, I have been tasting some big red wines lately – specifically some 2001 Barolos — and it has been a very pleasant experience. 2001 Barolo is a great vintage – period, no qualifications. If you have some in your cellar, congratulations; if you don’t, find it where you can.

2001 Barolo is just beginning to enter its maturity, and by all indications it’s going to get better and better for some years yet. I will probably have joined Troilus, laughing in the eighth sphere, before it begins to fade, or perhaps even peak. I just hope – very fervently — that I get to drink a lot more of the bottles of this vintage that I was lucky enough to squirrel away before either of those events comes to pass.

Herewith some tasting notes on a few I have sampled.

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 Oddero 2001 Mondoca di Bussia Soprana
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When I first pulled the cork, it freed a gorgeous aroma, pure grape – all youthful, grapey, early fermentation scents, surprising in a  two-decade-old wine. Need I say this promises extremely well for the wine’s future?  We drank it at a dinner of lamb shanks and beans, with a little bresaola before and a wedge of Brie after, and the wine was lovely with all of those – elegant and composed and surprisingly youthful. Lots of still-fresh fruit, lots of soft tannins. This bottle probably has 5 to 10 years before it hits full maturity, and who knows how long it will last after that. A great wine of a great vintage.

Oddero, of course, is a top-flight Barolo maker, and Bussia Soprana is one Barolo’s most prized crus. Bussia straddles Monforte d’Alba and Barolo communes: Mondoca is in the Monforte portion, within sight of the hamlet of Dardi, which is home of the next wine I want to talk about.

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Poderi Colla Dardi le Rose Barolo Bussia 2001
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From the Colla family’s carefully tended vineyards in the western edge of Bussia – Dardi is the name of the tiny hamlet, and Le Rose is Colla’s vineyard — this is as lovely and restrained and elegant a Barolo as one can imagine. It offered a generous mouthful of amazingly complex cherry flavors: Name a variety of cherry, and it was in there. In toto, the wine was delightfully fresh, balanced, and very long finishing. It reminded me of the old Prunotto Barolos, from the glory days of that producer – not surprisingly, because Beppe Colla made them, and his heirs, younger brother Tino and daughter Frederica, grew up on them.

I have a very warm spot in my heart for the whole family and the wonderful wines they so consistently produce, so perhaps I’m overstating a little here – but I doubt it. By my palate, there is no better wine than this for lovers of classic Barolo.

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Conterno Fantino Barolo Sorì Ginestra 2001
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Another fine example of the vintage, from a famous vineyard on the eastern side of Monforte d’Alba. Its nose and palate were marked by tobacco and black cherry, with rich sotto bosco notes at the end. This wine was very slightly aggressive: Its tannins are still very firm, so it has a lot of evolution still ahead of it. It mellowed markedly as it opened in the glass, and when we finally arrived at cheese, it gave very clear indications of just how fine it will become, probably in just a few years.

Its structure and balance both indicate to me that this, like the other 2001s I’ve been exploring, are going to last for a very long time, just possibly evolving steadily all that while. 2001 is a vintage I hope to enjoy deep into its and my old age.

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Fontanafredda 2001 Commune di Serralunga
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This wine is in a very different category than that of the single-vineyard wines I talked about above. It is the equivalent of a village red Burgundy, produced by blending grapes (probably from parcels too small to warrant separate vinification) from within the confines of the commune Serralunga d’Alba. That is a long string of hills on the very eastern edge of the entire Barolo DOC.

I thought it very fine: big for Fontanafredda, which in my experience usually produces less imposing wines. But this specimen unquestionably showed great depth of flavor, just beginning to move away from fruit and into mushroomy mature tastes. That it will be excellent and completely evolved in about five years is my guess.

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I first tasted 2001 Barolo almost 20 years ago now, at the 2004 Alba Wine Event, the annual presentation to the international wine press of the new releases of Barolo and Barbaresco. This was held over an entire week in Piedmont’s unofficial wine capital, Alba. The journalists, assembled in austere tasting rooms, sipped and spat and took notes on between 60 and 80 wines a day before going on to visit producers of their choice to taste some more. Leaving Barbaresco and other wines out of account, I probably tasted more than 200 newly bottled 2001 Barolos that week.

I was greatly impressed then, and not just by quantity. I thought that 2001 was a landmark vintage, because those young wines already showed rich fruit and great balance and even an already emerging touch of elegance. Now, I’m very happy to tell you that I was right, and 2001 Barolo is pure, unadulterated pleasure.

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The above is a title I once thought I would only ever use ironically. Back when I began as a wine journalist, when the Italian wine world was just beginning to awaken from its long slumber, an invitation to taste the produce of a regional cooperative was usually something I would firmly decline. Back then, most co-ops were turning out the least common denominator wine of their region – lots of it, designed to sell cheaply, to supply a supposed mass taste for nondescript plonk.

Well, the Italian wine world has transformed itself completely since then, and now co-ops are striving for quality production, and in most cases achieving it. Now, some of the most interesting tastings a wine maven can attend are those of cooperatives.

To understand how this came about, you need to know a little of the history of the co-op movement in Italy. For centuries, wine in Italy was a largely local affair, with growers – from the smallest sharecropper to the largest baronial estate – making wine mostly for personal and local consumption. A few of the larger growers bottled and commercialized their wine, but the market had nothing of its present-day dimensions. With a very few exceptions, Italian wine was very localized.

When Italy’s feudal sharecropping system, the mezzadria, finally ended (in the middle of the twentieth century!), small farmers fled the land for jobs in the cities, fields stood idle, and vineyards were neglected. A few producers with the resources bought up the land, consolidated the vineyards, and started commercializing their wines. The remaining smallholders, almost none of whom could afford to bottle their own wine, had little choice but to sell it to the big operations, usually – as you can imagine the market pressures – at a price more pleasing to the buyers than the sellers.

Enter the cooperatives. A few had been around for decades, mostly in the relatively few well-known northern appellations, where small growers had been able to merge their efforts and produce enough wine to be of interest to markets or distributors beyond their home region. Some of these are still active and very fine, especially in Alto Adige.

In Piedmont, one of the earliest and most successful cooperatives was Produttori del Barbaresco, which brought together small growers from all over the Barbaresco zone. It benefited from two key factors: a bevy of growers who worked many small but prized vineyards in prestigious parts of an important zone, and – maybe even more significant – enlightened leadership that from the beginning emphasized quality over quantity. Even now, in these days of superstar winemakers and much-hyped single-vineyard wines, the wines of the Produttori, whether basic Barbaresco, or Riserva, or any of the zone’s esteemed crus, stand in the front ranks of Barbaresco – which is to say, in the top echelon of Italian wine production.
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Produttori del Barbaresco can be regarded as the pacesetter, but other co-ops in regions famous and regions scarcely known caught on quickly. Co-ops offer many advantages for their members, far from all of whom are specialized in growing vines or making wine. Many are old farming families who love living on their land and working it. They still practice mixed agriculture. They may have only a few hectares, but some of it will be in grapes, some in wheat or vegetables, some in olive trees. Co-ops help them make a reasonable living, and they may belong to several, one for their grapes, one for their olives, one perhaps for their cheeses. Nobody gets rich, but they can all make a living and continue to enjoy the kind of life their families have followed for who knows how long.

Nowadays you can find cooperatives all through Italy, in zones both famous and not-so. Over half of Italy’s wine production comes from co-ops: I think that there are over 500 of them. Some may be quite specialized, but usually they produce the whole range of their area’s wines, and usually these days at quite a respectable level of quality.

A good example can be found almost anywhere. Tuscany, for instance, which is in all respects a quirky region of hyper-individualists, now hosts several fine co-ops in some of its most important zones. One whose wines I’ve been drinking lately is one of the smallest: Castelli del Grevepesa, in the Chianti Classico region, comprises only 18 growers. Not surprisingly, with most of them located in Panzano, Lamole, and Greve, they work mostly with Sangiovese.

Following the typical cooperative pattern, their newly harvested grapes are transferred immediately to the co-op winery where they are fermented, aged, and bottled by the co-op team – a general manager, an agronomist, and an oenologist. From those grapes they make Chianti Classico, Chianti Classico Riserva, and Gran Selezione wines. As a further economic boost for the co-op members, Castelli di Grevepesa also produces grappa and extra-virgin olive oil.
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Lately, I’ve been enjoying a lot of this co-op’s Clemente VII Chianti Classico Riserva 2018, a nicely balanced wine with lots of Sangiovese character and the kind of lively acidity that makes it a fine companion with all sorts of everyday lunches or dinners. And it has the added virtue of being quite inexpensive: It’s usually available for around $20, sometimes even less. To get a good reliable wine at that price, one I can enjoy with everything from hamburgers or steaks to, say, chicken pizzaiola: that makes me a very happy camper. You can see why I’m singing the praises of co-ops.

 

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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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