Orvieto Winetasting

I’d been bemoaning my lack of involvement with wine, given my unprecedented proximity to some of the finest wineries in the world, and resolved that in 2011 I’d go wine tasting, preferably multiple times in various parts of Italy. Our wine shops here stock a good selection from many Italian regions, so this minor initiative began in moderate earnest upon the advent of the new year. (Note: The right-wing media sting involving an NPR executive discussing, in part, his “discovery” of Madeira wine with supposed Muslim clerics (and the sad, intense gag reflex I had to suppress when I watched his delivery of said anecdote) caution me a little in my pursuit. Just like the not infrequent self-doubt about the high level of pretentiousness involved in both wearing a gray scarf with a red leather jacket and blogging about digging my toes into the black volcanic sand of Positano’s blissful beach, so do I seek to avoid becoming too enamored with my "sophisticated" new expat palate).

My first-ever wine tasting excursion takes us to a vineyard near the town of Orvieto, in Umbria. Orvieto is famous for its sweet white and, if the locals are to be believed, its cathedral. The town itself sits atop sheer cliffs and commands an impressive view of the famous countryside—that view you expect when you move to Italy. We spend the night in an old converted abbey called La Badia at the base of the cliffs, where we can see the cathedral as easily as those above can see us. Que bella, this place. Cedars and olive trees sway in the spring breeze, and dozens of ravens circle the abbey’s bell tower below the loving sun.

It’s bottling day today at Custodi, and at first glance it’s a large and bustling operation. We learn that the vineyard produces 40-50,000 bottles per year, which is either a lot or a little, I have no idea. Half of those are the Orvieto white, a combination of Chardonnay and four other kinds of grapes I’ve never heard of. It’s so clean, so pure, I feel like I could drink it with anything, or nothing, and be happy for many a long afternoon. More on that later. But upon closer examination we see that the assembly line from clean, empty bottles to full and sealed cases for shipment is entirely contained in a semi-truck trailer. About a dozen men bustle about verifying each empty bottle’s purity, overseeing the gush of wine or stamp of cork, loading and hefting cases, shouting above the hum of the machines. Grapes are generally picked here in September (or late October/ early November for the rare and very sweet Pertusa, like an eiswein), fermented in the huge metal vats behind us for a few months and then stored in bottles or other containers for another amount of time, either months or years depending on the type of wine, flavor, vintage, art/whim of the vintner. These grapes were picked in September last and have transitioned to the bottle on their long journey to our thirsty throats.

We sit to a table set with glasses and plastic plates. Our host brings us toast soaked in olive oil. We learn that olive oil can be as diverse as wine, and later ravenously buy multiple bottles. We start with the white, move on to two reds, the first of which is fantastic, the kind of red I like. Described as good-bodied, full, dry, and persistent, I detect that distinct harshness on the edge, common among the local and Sicilian reds I’ve had at home in Naples, but it’s muted enough for me to taste the smell, as it were. I enjoy the fruit, the sweetness, because of its bitter frame. I buy this one, called Piancoleto. Julie does not enjoy it.

The second red is called, tellingly, Austero, and is described as full-bodied, strong, persistent and warm. I think of half-collapsed log cabins described as “rustic.” It’s harsh, and I’m not there yet. I fully believe in the depth of enjoyment residing within that bottle, and maybe in a decade or so I’ll bore some new acquaintances with my re-discovery of Custodi's Austero, but not today.

Our fourth and final is the dessert Pertusa, for which they bring out little cookies instead of toast. It has the color and flavor of honey, so sweet you can’t hold it long on your tongue. They only make 600 bottles per year of this wine, which clearly has a very unique role in the collector’s cellar.

But the white is the star, the wine we’ll remember and the wine we gift to our friends Zach and Kristin, who are watching Aryn this weekend. It tastes like sunshine and breeze, like little white flowers. We have it with a cheese plate in a jazz club, and I can’t stop smiling. We have it with local artisan honey and fresh bread, and it changes, sweetens, in my mouth. This is the first time I’ve experienced how a wine can change with the food you’re eating. I drink it with my dinner of wild boar on pasta in wild boar sauce with a side of wild boar, and it declines, almost sours, beaten back. I need a stronger wine for this entrée, but a savvier foodie would choose a lighter meal to complement the wine. The live band, not due to go on for another two hours, continues their warmup jam session for an audience of two, and now an audience of you. Bravo, Orvieto. Bravo.

Primavera

The Italian word for spring, “Primavera,” gives a clear understanding by its very music how this season is viewed here. I’ve always been partial to autumn, even though it signaled the start of another school year for most of my formative years, but here I, too, love the spring. There aren’t many deciduous leaves in southern Italy, and the winter landscape still has a fair amount of green in it (nearly as much as Ireland’s, in fact). Spring, however, is when a green and brown world explodes into brilliant pinks, reds, yellows and golds as dozens of wildflowers burst from the earth like fireworks in celebration of the warmth to come.

It rains a lot during the Neapolitan winters, and no one hates the rain like Italians. This is a land entirely given over to celebration of the sun. Outside seating at restaurants may have an awning over most of their tables, but Italians will stand and wait indefinitely for a table inside if it’s raining. The great Italian hangout spots—walking along the promenade and the wide pedestrian zone streets, posing along the waterfront, lounging in the park—are all empty if there’s a hint of water from above.

“How was your vacation?” they’ll ask.
“Wonderful, we went to Ireland, we saw the—“
“Did it rain?”
“Of course, but we got to see the—“
“Oh Mamma mia, it must have been terrible!”

But spring signals the end of the rainy winter. The sun has come back from wherever you banished it, malocchio, and we can emerge from our sadness to once again live. The farm hands all have smiles on their faces as they ready the fields. Soon, gold then green stalks in narrow rows greet my morning bus ride into the office. April, here, is the cruelest month because you have to show up for work occasionally, and you can’t just rush outside all day to soak up the returning sun.

Jackets stay on even in temperatures well into the 70s, but the zippers get lower and the buttons start popping off one by one. Soon the men’s skin-tight shirts with impressive popped collars will be unbuttoned to the navel, and the girls will celebrate that which nature and a decent surgeon bestowed. The prosecco and caffe di nonno will be cold and the summer evenings’ warmth the subject of a million songs. But just now, when the chilly mornings make you debate wearing a jacket and the noontime sun nibbles at your ear and whispers of a hammock and a brief repose, the whole earth’s foreplay, like a lover, gives new life.