I recently wrote a piece for The Takeout, 13 Store-Bought Olive Oils For Bread Dipping, Ranked, and a few interesting things came up that I thought I would follow up on here.

1. Lucini’s Premium Select Organic won, and rather easily. I had always lumped Lucini in with the other standard mass market Italian brands like Berio, Cento, Pompeiian, etc., but it turns out they are (at least) a step above. The brand’s actually been part of the California Olive Ranch portfolio for a decade, which in turn was recently purchased by Cobram. (Two high-end producers, at least for the mass market.)

2. Speaking of Cobram, I wanted to include their California Select extra virgin olive oil in the original comparison, but due to supply chain vagaries, their sample arrived after my deadline. But I can try it now.

3. Lastly, I wanted to test the winner, Lucini, against the truly premium EVOO I happen to have on hand, Quattrociocchi’s Superbo, an organic, extreme intensity oil made from Moraiolo olives from Lazio.

Without further ado, then, let’s take a look at the ensuing taste test.

Firstly, it’s a shame I was unable to receive the Cobram oil before my deadline, because it would have shown well in my experiment. Though I still prefer the Lucini, I feel confident that the Cobram California Select would have placed in the top five. It’s an expressive, vivacious oil with a lingering finish, and certainly a worthy purchase when faced with the grocery store oil aisle. The one drawback, however, is that there does not seem to be a clear indicator of harvest date on the label, so mileage may vary, depending on storage and age.

Now, to the premium oil. Comparing the Lucini to the Superbo doesn’t make me regret my choice in the Takeout article. The Lucini Premium Select is a lovely oil, especially for a supermarket brand. It’s grassy, nutty, spicy, pleasantly bitter.

That being said, the Superbo is on a completely different level. This oil is so evocative, vibrant, alive. It’s both sharper and rounder than the Lucini, showing more fruit and more bitterness, and offering a finish that lasts for minutes. Even just aromatically, it’s immediately evident that the Superbo has more to share, and that continues through a taste test, both alone and with bread. Though the Superbo is around twice as expensive for a 16.9oz bottle, the difference is irrefutable.

In sum, then, though there are some quality supermarket oils available to the discerning oil connoisseur, a great artisanal oil will likely please the palate in a much more profound way.

Note: This is a free preview of my eBook monograph (Almost) Lost Italian Grapes: Pecorino. You can purchase the book for $1.99 on my website.

Though I can’t remember the exact details of where or when I encountered this, my first exposure to the grape Pecorino — no, not the cheese — came in the form of the seemingly perfect origin legend. Presumed extinct, it was rediscovered, the tale went, growing wild in a ravine in rural, mountainous central Italy. Daydreaming, I pictured an aged, grizzled sheep farmer, ponderously peering down a perilous incline of pure granite, wondering about a single vine that somehow forced its way through a minuscule crack in the craggy rock. I dreamt of experiencing the wonder and excitement that followed this discovery, once it became clear that this grape a) was no longer growing anywhere else, and b) made excellent wine.

As such, it was initially disappointing to learn that the true story — Pecorino was purposely revived by southern Marche vintner Guido Cocci Grifoni and friends — was less romantic than what I had either read or concocted in my own head (or perhaps a combination of both). Once Grifoni’s story unfurled itself, however, it became obvious that this tale, one of dogged determination and unwavering belief that the Ascoli Piceno comune could indeed produce a world class white wine, stands firmly on its own in the pantheon of wine history. (Abruzzo, it should be noted, will also have its say before this chapter is done.)

Today, Pecorino is one of the hottest commodities in Italian wine, producing at its best a full-bodied, complex and serious wine that’s versatile at the table, worthy of the cellar, and still a comparative value.

The beauty of Pecorino is its ability to develop rich, honeyed fruit flavors without sacrificing its backbone of herbal notes and bright acidity. In the right hands, Pecorino can even develop tropical flavors — pineapple, mango, maybe banana — without ever becoming flabby, something that can’t often be said about other grapes of similar ripeness levels. The result, then, is a lush, opulent wine that manages to finish light on its feet.

It’s a perfect example of the world-class quality of Italian whites that sit behind the mass-produced Pinot Grigio and other beachfront fare that perhaps closes off wine connoisseurs to the potential that still lies under the radar here along the Adriatic coast.

Known as a trailblazer long before he started thinking about Pecorino, in the 1960s Guido Cocci Grifoni established a dedicated wine production facility independent from the family farm, something quite uncommon at the time. He was instrumental in creating the Rosso Piceno DOC in 1968, and also bottled the first wine from this DOC, in 1970. At the time, reds were the strength of the region, with stalwarts Montepulciano and Sangiovese leading the way.

“In the early 1980s, he realized the problems we had with our white grapes,” Marilena Cocci Grifoni said of her father, who passed away in 2010. “Trebbiano mainly, but Malvasia and Passerina as well.”¹ The comune’s most notable white — Falerio dei Colli Ascolani, today simply Falerio — had held DOC status since 1975, but predominantly featured the often over-farmed and thus lackluster Trebbiano Toscano, with much smaller allowed percentages of other regional whites. While the local market for Falerio was reasonably strong, outside this small region it generated little interest.

“He traveled to Vinitaly,” Marilena continued, speaking of the country’s most important wine industry trade fair, “and saw that our white wines could not compete with the rest of Italy. So he understood that he had to find a new grape.” Verdicchio, of course, is the star white of Marche, but it only thrives in the northern part of the region, not in the more southern Ascoli Piceno area (which lies just north of the Abruzzo border), due to climate and terrain differences.

Cocci Grifoni began to research other native white varieties. “He did not have an agronomy degree,” Marilena said. “He didn’t even finish middle school, because his father passed away from cancer when [Guido] was very young. He had to take care of his mother.”

For much of the mid-to-late 20th century, Ascoli Piceno remained underdeveloped. “I would not say the area was poor,” Marilena remembered. “People could feed themselves. But it was very limited, basic. We did not have technology. No central heating, simplistic washing machines and dishwashers.” This continued in the vineyards, which already were riding a wave of progress in more famous wine areas. “There was no research approach for vinification or production. We didn’t have a university close to us, or an experimental research office in the region. Nothing.”²

Because the cooperative wineries, which most growers still worked with, were paying based on quantity (as opposed to quality), this meant farmers were focused on the same, producing huge amounts of swollen, waterlogged grapes that — considering they were mostly Trebbiano Toscano — surely led to bland, forgettable wines.

None of this, however, deterred Guido in his quest to discover the region’s own great white. “My father, he didn’t talk much,” Marilena recalled. “He didn’t know how to communicate, like a lot of southern Marche people, but he was serious and honest, and a strong work ethic was fundamental to his life.”³ Despite his limited schooling, he procured books on local grapes and read them with his wife. He sought out like-minded friends and colleagues in the industry, in particular Teodoro Bugari, a teacher, author, judge and sommelier, the latter “before anyone in our area knew that word,”⁴ as Marilena put it.

Nicknamed “Maestro,” Bugari was an original member of the Associazione Italiana Sommelier (AIS), founding both the AIS Commission for Education — in which he dedicated himself to the professional training of many wine students — and the regional AIS branch for Marche, Abruzzo and Molise. For Bugari, said Marilena, education was his life’s purpose. “He was totally addicted. He worked his entire life, never becoming rich, because for him, to be an educator, to be a teacher, was his mission.”

“When we say maestro,” she continued, “it is different than saying professor in English. Professor is something else. For us, maestro means a person who dedicates his life to educating the new generation. Teodoro Bugari was Maestro.”⁵

End of free preview. To keep reading, buy the full eBook on my website ($1.99)

View Bibliography and Notes here.

This book features extensive research and interviews, including more than 10 works cited as well as quotes from (the late) Guido Cocci Grifoni and his daughter Marilena Cocci Grifoni of the Cocci Grifoni winery in Marche, Luigi Cataldi Madonna of Abruzzo’s Cataldi Madonna winery, Cristiana Tiberio of Abruzzo’s Tiberio winery, Cesare Tiberio of famous Italian nursery VCR, and many more.

This is the first chapter in a new series I call (Almost) Lost Italian Grapes. Here are a few tidbits you can expect to read about:

• Pecorino is a rare grape that can achieve rich fruit notes — think tropical fruits, especially — without losing its acidity.

• The first recorded written reference to Pecorino dates to 1871, though the grape is believed to have been grown in east-central Italy prior to the establishment of provinces and regions.

• As such, whether Pecorino hails from Marche or Abruzzo is a questione di lana caprina.

• Pecorino’s modern resurgence began with a fortuitous dinner invitation in 1972.

• A 1982 trip to a mountain garden in Arquata del Tronto, on the slopes of Mount Vettore, further cemented Pecorino’s path.

• Around the same time (early 1980s), an Abruzzo viticulturist named Vincenzo Aquilano was discovering his own cache of Pecorino in Vittorito.

• When he was trying to gain support for his Pecorino project, most locals thought Guido Cocci Grifoni “was a crazy man.”

• Though some winemakers found the name Pecorino to be “evocative,” others were not so easily convinced, referring to it as “cheese wine,” etc.

• Pecorino was, at best, a leader in the movement towards fresher, more savory wines as a popular style, starting around the 1990s. (At the very least, it was a good example of this phenomenon.)

• Pecorino plantings increased from just 87 hectares in 2000 to 1449 in 2010, a jump of more than 1500%. (And this has increased further since 2010!)

As an independent author, I truly value the time and interest you’ve shown in my work, and appreciate any consideration you can give this book. Without you, this would not be possible!

As a thanks for getting this far, if you purchase the book on Gumroad, I’m offering a 50% discount (so it’s only a buck!) with the code SUBSTACK-50.

The hybrid variety Alexander is “a grape of the past,” wrote prominent horticulturist U.P. Hedrick in 1908, but “no other of our American varieties better deserves historical record.” More than a century later, this remains undeniably true. While today Alexander is not exactly a hot topic among wine lovers – it fell out of favor in the mid-1800s – it is absolutely worthy of recollection, having been the first grape that could consistently produce European-style wines in the New World, without which the early American industry would not have been possible.

Because of their adaptability under the increasing threat of climate change, newfound interest in hybrids – or the offspring of different grape species – means Alexander’s legacy may be more important now than ever. As we begin to rely more on well-established hybrids like Vidal Blanc and Chambourcin, newer options such as Frontenac and Marquette, or European PIWIs like Regent and Souvignier Gris, we must not forget the undeniable link between each of these and the discovery of Alexander.

Penn Pride

This story begins in colonial Pennsylvania, when William Penn brought grapevines over from Bordeaux in 1682. Though these vines did live briefly in what is now Philadelphia’s Fairmount Park, they ultimately failed due to a lack of resistance to local pests and diseases. Their planting would, however, change the global wine industry forever.

Though spontaneously at first — unprompted by humans, that is — these French vines cross-pollinated with native plants to form the earliest documented hybrid, in this case a cross between European Vitis vinifera and American Vitis labrusca. Around 1740, the story goes, Penn family gardener James Alexander came across a strange vine — which, improbably at the time, seemed to display both vinifera and labrusca characteristics — growing near the original vineyard. Though it went by many names during its brief reign (including Constantia, Schuylkill, Tasker’s Grape and more), the most lasting would pay tribute to its discoverer: Alexander.

Despite eventually giving way to higher-quality hybrids, much of the early US wine trade evolved out of this initial revelation, spreading up and down the east coast and even to the midwest. After years of failed experiments, success begat success, and an industry began to form.

Much credit for Alexander’s propagation belongs to Frenchman Pierre Legaux – founder of the first commercial American vineyard, just outside Philadelphia – who was the first to succeed with the grape on a large scale. Fascinatingly, it was perhaps intentional deception that helped spread the variety. Legaux marketed Alexander as “Cape,” claiming it came via the Cape of Good Hope and was of the vinifera species. Whether he intended to defraud his potential customers or genuinely mixed up the cuttings remains lost to history.

It was, noted Hedrick, likely that many who tried the so-called Cape grape “would have scorned it had they supposed it to be a native.” Legaux’s probable deceit may perhaps be forgiven, then, when considering his crucial role “as the chief disseminator of… the first distinctive American variety of commercial value.”

Presidential Pedigree

Counted among Alexander’s fans was none other than US Founding Father Thomas Jefferson. “This was a very fine wine, & so exactly resembling the red Burgundy of Chambertin,” Jefferson wrote to one Alexander producer. “I had very good [bottles] on the same table imported by myself,” he continued, and my “company could not distinguish the one from the other.”

The quality of Alexander wine, Jefferson later added, “satisfies me that we have at length found one native grape, inured to all the accidents of our climate, which will give us a wine worthy of the best vineyards of France.”

Despite this effusion, in Jefferson’s day wine writing as we know it did not exist, so it remains difficult to know precisely what Alexander tasted like, or even how palatable it was. (For all the gruff we give ourselves for overly elaborate tasting notes, this is certainly a case where I’d love to know if the wine evoked Mission figs, Maduro tobacco, etc.) As for Jefferson’s praise, maybe he truly loved the grape, or perhaps his positivity was merely an attempt to encourage those who were equipped to further grape growing in the US.

“Alexander was a coarse grape with so much foxiness of flavor that it did not please the early growers… as a table-grape, but it made a very good wine of the claret type,“ wrote Hedrick. But, he continued, “early writers differ so in their estimates of the good and bad qualities of this grape that it is hard to give its true characters.”

There are, however, sporadic hints suggesting what Alexander may have been like. Of an 1826 vintage, for example, a Philadelphia newspaper wrote that it had “excellent body and fine flavour, very similar to good Teneriffe [sic].”

An 1865 account, on the other hand, noted that the “dark wine” made from Alexander had “a peculiar aroma.”

While there are occasional claims of contemporary Alexander plantings, proof these match the Alexander of yore is tenuous at best. (I remain hopeful, if skeptical.) Regardless of our ability to taste the genuine article, however, we can still appreciate Alexander’s lasting impact, both as a precursor to hybrids that would follow, and as an illustration of grape culture always finding its way.

So, as climate change continues to wreak havoc on the growing conditions of noble grapes and producers instead turn to alternative options — and eventually, probably, to the next great hybrid that hasn’t yet been created — let’s all raise a glass to Alexander, and the hope it continues to bring for all those wines to come.

References

Hedrick, U.P. The Grapes of New York, (Albany, NY: J.B. Lyon Company, 1908).

Münch, Friedrich. School for American Grape Culture: Brief But Thorough and Practical Guide to the Laying Out of Vineyards, the Treatment of Vines, and the Production of Wine in North America, (St. Louis, MO: Conrad Witter, 1865).

“Pennsylvania Horticultural Society,” Aurora & Pennsylvania Gazette, 6 November 1828.

“Thomas Jefferson to John Adlum, 7 October 1809,” Founders Online, National Archives, https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Jefferson/03-01-02-0459.

“Thomas Jefferson to John Adlum, 20 April 1810,” Founders Online, National Archives, https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Jefferson/03-02-02-0293.

The Consorzio Tutela Vini d’Abruzzo tasting last Monday in Philadelphia — held at Abruzzo-themed restaurant Le Virtù — was a good excuse to get reacquainted with the iconic Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, which I did some deep dives into years ago but haven’t drank as much lately.

Well-made “Monty” is always a treat, with loads of cherry fruit and stern but not oppressive tannins. It’s great with food, in particular Le Virtù’s grilled lamb arrosticini, a classic dish of the region.

The main challenge growing this grape is ensuring the pips ripen along with the flesh, otherwise the resulting wine easily can become out of balance. As such, many cheaper versions can suffer from unripe, green notes, though as winemaking technology improves this may become less of an issue.

On the other end of the spectrum, for many years, higher-end Montepulciano suffered from consistent over-oaking by its producers, a trend that is thankfully dying, though not entirely gone. The most expensive wine we tried today — the 2021 Marina Cvetić Iskra from iconic producer Masciarelli — certainly showed a lot of new oak at this point, but also had structure to match. I’m sure it’ll be quite nice once it has some time to harmonize in the bottle, but at the same time shows there is still work to be done to figure out MdA’s ideal oak balance.

Perhaps more exciting, however, was the Tritàno Montepulciano d’Abruzzo DOC, which our hosts paired with the (slightly) lighter pasta course, but also showcased how fun and versatile Montepulciano can be when aged in steel and made in this more approachable style.

This lunch was also a chance to try parrazzo (in dialect, lu parozz’), the traditional Abruzzo Christmas cake — think Abruzzese panettone, though there are differences — which I’ve yearned to try but never sampled. Made with almond flour, saffron and candied orange peel, the cake is then covered in a layer of chocolate ganache. For anyone interested in traditional Italian holiday dishes, this is an absolute must try. (The pictured biscotti were also tasty.)

Anyway, back to the wines: which Montepulciano d’Abruzzo wines do you recommend?

The other day I woke up in the middle of the night, sweaty and uncomfortable, but also, miraculously, with a fully-formed recipe in my head. A Carbonara-inspired (I was kidding in the headline, relax), broccoli-based pasta.

I made it last night, and it was actually quite delicious! Here’s what I did:

First, I shaved off the very top of the florets, with a knife, just trying to get the little green nobs that sit at the very top. Because that’s somewhat difficult, I gave the result a quick pulse or three in the food processor, to make it as grain-like as possible. I then cooked this on medium in a dry pan just enough to soften it up.

I reserved the middle part of the florets for another use, then cut the stem/stalks into thin pieces that sorta resembled lardons. I added these to a hot pan with EVOO and some smoked paprika, and fried on medium to medium-low until browned and soft.

I then took the cooled, grainy broccoli tops and put them in a bowl with 1 egg and two egg yolks, plus a nice pile of microplaned hard Italian cheese, and mixed it all into a paste.

I added some reserved pasta water to this paste (to temper the eggs), then added it to the pan with the broccoli stalk lardons. Then I added pasta to the pan, and mixed it all together, adding more reserved water as needed to emulsify the sauce.

That’s it! I served it with more cheese on top and some additional high-quality EVOO. In the end, it did evoke Carbonara, at least somewhat, but was also a nice light pasta option for a summer evening.

In terms of portions, I used 2 large heads of broccoli for 12 oz of pasta, and to be honest I wished there was more sauce, so next time I’ll use 3. (I might not need all the stalks on 3, but certainly for the tops this would be useful.)

What do you think? Genius or blasphemy? Would you try it? Should I at least have used lard to fry the “lardons?” Should I use cauliflower next time? Let me know in the comments.

This article was originally written in July 2015 and published ten years ago this week. It won me a trip to Montefalco and remains one of my favorite pieces of all time.

It’s July 20-something, and the relentless midsummer sun is bearing down on the Northeast US. Rosé Season is in full swing. It’s the time of year when my brooding, prized behemoths normally slumber safely in the dark, dusty confines of my cellar, awaiting the return of fall and temperatures more appropriate for their masculine wiles. Yet here I sit, in the company of one of the baddest dudes on the planet: the fabled Sagrantino di Montefalco. As its singular, rugged aroma wafts out of the glass, intermingling with the redolence of pork seared alongside generous doses of fennel pollen, garlic and sage, I begin to realize that, in spite of Mother Nature’s attempts to dissuade me, this may be one of the better decisions I’ve made in some time.

Regardless of season or context (and ignoring for a moment the cooling embraces of my brand new HVAC system), this is one extraordinary wine. I could claim it’s the bold flavors of dark cherry, pipe tobacco, warm spices, resinous pine tar, anise and mocha that set it apart, but winespeak won’t do it justice. There’s something here I can’t put my finger on, a unique, special, even majestic aspect that separates it from the rest.

Sharing this moment with me is Frank Cipparone, the former lead Italian instructor at Philly’s Wine School and a fellow Sagrantino lover. “I was once asked,” muses Frank, “if I could only choose to save one grape, which it would be. It was an easy choice: Sagrantino.” I ask him what sets this grape apart. “What defines it for me,” he replies, “is the balance of complexity and subtlety, power and grace. When you inhale the seductive, earthy aromas of a well-made Sagrantino, you know it can only be Italian. As it opens up from one sip to the next, it represents what any Italian wine should be – authentic, uncompromising, and true to its place of origin. Chianti may be Italy’s most famous wine,” he continues, “but Sagrantino is the real thing.”

Italy’s Heartland

Often called il cuore verde d’Italia (the green heart of Italy), Umbria is a landlocked region that sits almost dead-center on the boot, with a similar climate to Tuscany, spotted with hill towns and lush, fertile valleys, a wonderful locale for much of Italy’s finest olive oil, truffles, game meats and, of course, grapes. (Those who can live with being further from Florence will find far lower rental prices and less crowded streets too, but that’s another conversation.)

If Umbria is the heart, Montefalco is the beat, located in the center of the center, and though its wines are perhaps not as well known to casual drinkers as Orvieto’s crisp whites or the famed Lungarotti family of Torgiano, it holds the trump card: Sagrantino.

There’s a shroud of mystery over the origins of this grape; digging into to the topic will unearth tales of Pliny the Elder, St. Francis of Assisi, and the Saracens of Spain. Has it been here since the dawn of time? Does it matter? It’s here now, and it shines in this spot, above all others; a potent, rustic beauty for Umbria and Montefalco to claim as their own.

Much of Sagrantino’s unique personality is derived from its thick skins, which contain more polyphenols than any other vinefra (which in turn creates fiercely tannic wines). Historically, to combat this unrelenting bitterness, monks producing sacrament wine air-dried the fruit to concentrate sugars, then vinified it as sweet passito.

In the 1970s, as the grape neared extinction, a group of Montefalco-based winemakers began to experiment with dry Sagrantino, using modern techniques to tame the exuberant tannins. In particular, the success of the Arnaldo Caprai estate established worldwide interest in the grape and region, helping to create a DOC in 1979 and elevating the Sagrantino di Montefalco – wines made with 100% Sagrantino grapes – to DOCG status (the highest classification of Italian wine) in 1992.

In the 1990s – and even as recently as 5-7 years ago, to be honest – it was nearly unheard of to find a bottle of Sagrantino di Montefalco for less than $50, due to the grape’s rarity – only 250 acres were under vine in all of Montefalco. In the years since, however, the area has seen vast growth, nearing 2000 acres today. Between the years 2000 and 2008, Sagrantino production quadrupled, while the total surface area of DOCG vineyards has grown to 5 times its original size (although a reduction in the yield per hectare has also been implemented, to preserve quality).

Because of this expansion, as well as the addition of new producers, the market has opened for competition and allowed for more favorable consumer pricing. Always looking for these bottles myself, I’ve noticed lately that finding one under $20 – though still unlikely – isn’t the white whale it once was.

As such, it’s an exciting time to be a Sagrantino drinker. More competition, modern techniques, increased distribution and better pricing means it is easier to procure a great bottle of this wonderful wine than ever before.

My Week With Sagrantino

My midsummer Umbrian adventure – in Pennsylvania – begins with the Montefalco Rosso DOC, a red made with mostly Sangiovese and just a small amount of Sagrantino. Interestingly, just few weeks ago (late June 2015), the Montefalco Consortium’s board of directors voted to change the blending rules for this wine, removing the requirement for a third grape while encouraging the use of more Sagrantino (up to 25% from the current max of 15). This prioritization of terroir over all else is a bold statement in today’s world of modern, homogeneous winemaking.

Since the wine I am drinking – Antonelli Montefalco Rosso – is from the 2010 vintage, it features the traditional blend of Sangiovese (70%), Sagrantino (15%), and, in this case, 15% Merlot. The strong foundation of Sangiovese makes for a wine that plays like other Central Italian reds: medium-bodied, fresh red fruits, hints of dirt and leather, food-friendly. The addition of Sagrantino, however – even just a little – adds a distinctly Umbrian robustness.

As I taste my nearly finished marinara sauce made from local tomatoes, I begin to worry that this particular heirloom variety might be too fruity for the Sagrantinian finish. And the wine has already been poured! Thankfully, the Sangiovese plays its role, staying light on its feet — and though tannins are certainly present, the firm acids from both Italian grapes play well off of the brightness of the sauce. This would clearly pair well with a wide variety of pastas, pizzas and similar first courses.

A few days later, a barbecue with friends brings out bottles of the Cantine Rialto Umbria Rosso, another blend of Sangiovese, Sagrantino and Merlot, this time with Merlot in the lead role, thus its categorization as the more generic Umbria IGT, despite its obvious roots in Montefalco. This wine is perhaps the ultimate everyday Umbrian – Merlot delivering its soft, plum fruitiness up front, followed by Sagrantino mixing in a dash of its unmistakably spicy character on the finish. Finding a few bottles on sale for $8.99, it’s a no-brainer to stock up on for sausages hot off the grill, (and easy to open another when the last drop is poured).

Throughout this discussion, I’ve been alluding to the weather, the food, and the weight of the wine, how this all comes into play with regards to when and where we drink it. Especially now that we are eating healthier as a society, it’s interesting to think about the big, bold wines and what foods they pair with. Do they always need a big, fatty hunk of beef? A few months back, I came across an article in Saveur magazine about Umbria, and was particularly intrigued to see pairing suggestion of Arnaldo Caprai Sagrantino di Montefalco Collepiano – a giant in the space – with pork tenderloin, an extremely lean meat. Could this actually work?

More importantly, is there something in particular about Sagrantino that makes it work? In Ian D’Agata’s awe-inspiring tome Native Wine Grapes of Italy, consulting winemaker Emiliano Falsini opines that Sagrantino skins, “despite their wealth of polyphenols… can be put through even long macerations, because the tannins are usually smooth and polished.” This is in contrast to other grapes, which Falsini notes risk “leaching out very dry astringent tannins” with longer macerations. (page 426, hardcover edition)

The recipe in question – Filetto di Maiale con Bacche di Ginepro (Pork with Juniper Berries) – relies heavily on regional herbs and spices, namely juniper, fennel, sage, rosemary & thyme. (There’s some pancetta or guanciale too, in fairness, but not thatmuch.) I give the wine, a 2007 (in 2015), about 3 hours of air before dinner, and it opens nicely by the time food hits the table. There’s this element of medicinal herbs to Sagrantino – which might sound odd when written, but is actually quite brilliant in juice form – that a dish like this teases out oh-so-perfectly.

Wow.

A bite of that pork, with the juniper, fennel, herbs, and then the wine. It’s like a symphony, one unified movement, flowing together, continuing long after the bite or sip has concluded. Simply gorgeous.

And the tannins? Nicely polished indeed, with lots of chocolate on the finish. They certainly make no attempt to thwart my enjoyment of the meal.

Finally, my food and wine journey concludes back where it started – with tomato sauce, but, this time – because how could I not – there’s pork involved. A ragu, to be specific. I’ve pulled a lower-priced Sagrantino DOCG, the Terre de Trinci Sagrantino di Montefalco, which I somehow scored for less than 15 bucks a couple years ago, and have been patiently storing since, slowly coaxing its subtle charms into being. It brings all the classic notes of earth, anise, macchia, warm spice and bold cherry fruit, and though perhaps not as complex as the Caprai, it emboldens the soul next to a plate of pasta made with love.

What else does a guy need?

All images exc bottles © Consorzio Tutela Vini Montefalco

“It’ll be just like Hell today, but with more humidity,” joked the radio weatherman. I believed him; it was one of those brutal summer weeks in the low country – near Charleston, SC – where not only did the mercury climb into the 90s, but the cloying humidity penetrated the depths of my bones. Our air conditioning tried its best, but even the most powerful HVAC system was not enough to shake that relentless, unwavering… stickiness. Blech.

As such, I was initially apprehensive when asked to pick up some red wine to go with upcoming dinners. The thought alone of drinking some heavy, vanilla-laden fruit bomb, in this weather, was stomach-turning.

Thankfully, my local, overpriced-because-it’s-near-a-resort wine store (which, in fairness, has a nice selection), happened to have a bottle of Feudo di Santa Tresa’s varietal Frappato for about $18. (This was several years ago, so I don’t recall the vintage.) I knew of the grape – that it was typically lower in alcohol and lighter in flavor – but I had never tasted a varietal bottling, and $18 was a downright bargain in this particular shop, so it was an easy decision.

A few days later, still perpetually clinging to our clothes, we cracked it open, pre-chilled… and life immediately improved. Brightness returned to the world. Breath came a little easier. That feathery litheness; the strawberry fruit, and sour cherry tartness; the mineral-tinged finish. This fragrant little beauty – officially a red wine, if only barely past rosato – did the unthinkable: it conquered the South Carolina humidity.

In the summers since, I’ve often turned back to Feudo di Santa Tresa Frappato, and it’s become a reliable, inexpensive choice to pair with warm-weather barbecue (everything from fish to chicken to burgers). Though I once wrote that Schiava is the ultimate summer red, Frappato clearly has a legitimate claim to the same. In fact, the wine made from these grapes shares several similarities: sour cherry notes, bright fruit, driving minerality. Frappato can also be reminiscent of Gamay (the red grape of Beaujolais), another warm weather winner.

At a recent tasting hosted by Sicilia DOC, I had the chance to taste a couple more varietal Frappato wines – Planeta Frappato and Donnafugata Bell’Assai Frappato – both of which deepened my love for the grape (even though it was only February.) These wines are just so darn fresh! Even the earthiness that runs through them – to me, a dried, dusty kind of flavor – adds to the lean, crisp character on display. They’re such great partners to a wide variety of foods, especially lighter meats like poultry or fish, and even vegetable-driven meals, which I find on my plate more and more often these days. Lastly, they drink well both chilled or just off room temp, and are always mouthwatering enough to suggest another sip.

Hell, they even work in July, in South Carolina.

Recently a reader asked me what I knew about the history of the Italian American pepper and egg sandwich - made by sautéing bell peppers, mixing with scrambled eggs and serving on a long roll - which I briefly mentioned in my book A History of Philadelphia Sandwiches. Since I responded, I figured I’d also put the info into a quick post.

For the first half of the 1900s, a pepper & egg (or egg & pepper) sandwich mostly seemed to refer to a type of egg salad sandwich with chopped green peppers, and this seems to have been served all over the country. Horn & Hardart served it in Philly as early as the 1920s, but I don’t know if they came up with it or just piggybacked on someone else’s creation.

There was also the Denver sandwich, which like the omelet had bacon or ham, onion, pepper and cheese, mixed with scrambled eggs, served on sliced bread. (This was, BTW, confused by the fact that Denver Sandwich was also a brand of candy bar.)

During WWII rationing, some Philly sandwich shops replaced meat with eggs, so my guess would be that this may have also happened in other places. But I do believe it was always hard boiled eggs, at least in Philly.

None of these examples seems to have an obvious connection to the Italian-style pepper & egg, though it is difficult to say for sure. Somebody tries a sandwich in one spot, and then it inspires an idea later, etc. Who knows?

The Italian American pepper and egg sandwich has become particularly connected to Chicago, with many now claiming the sandwich was invented there. The evidence I could find, however, suggests otherwise. To wit:

Looking through old newspapers, the sandwich is mentioned in the mid-Atlantic before it is ever mentioned in the Midwest. It’s actually first written, in the 1950s, in North Jersey and NEPA (Scranton/WB area). I’ve also seen it later/elsewhere called a “pepper & egg hero,” suggesting a NYC connection.

It wasn’t printed in Chicago (Berwyn, IL, actually) newspapers until the mid ‘60s. And the guy who always made the loudest claim about inventing it in the Chicago area (Fiore’s) didn’t even open until 1970!

That said, others have suggested, without concrete evidence, that it or something like it was made in places like NYC, Philly and Chicago as early as the late 1800s, perhaps as a Friday meal when meat was not allowed for Catholics. Which is may be true, even if it was not commercialized.

So my guess, much as I have noted with regards to the Italian sub, is that it probably emerged in parallel in these Italian enclaves. In other words, I doubt it was invented in Chicago and migrated to Philly, or the other way around, but rather it emerged out of similar necessity in parallel in these separate places.

From what I have seen in Philly, catholic Lenten tradition and no meat Fridays (pre-1965, when the pope decreed that meatless Fridays were only mandated during Lent) drove some creation of vegetarian sandwiches such as the pepper & egg. Dinic’s also served a sandwich with just roasted long hot peppers and sharp provolone, for example.

Regardless of its origin, the pepper & egg is an Italian American classic that perhaps deserves more respect in the broader canon of submarine-style sandwiches.

Schiava Basics

Why care about Schiava?

This easygoing wine spawned the local aphorism: “the perfect wine for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

Pronunciation

Skee-ah-va

Key region

Alto Adige, Italy

Synonyms

Vernatsch, Trollinger

Producers I like

Alois Lageder • Castel Salegg • Girlan • Kaltern • Manincor

Findability in the US

Moderate. The good news is that any bottle one comes across is likely to be tasty

History

Genetics

Actually a group of unrelated grapes, including Schiava Grossa, Gentile, and Grigia, with the former being most common today.

Documented as early as

1311

Etymology

Most common hypo is that its vines were commonly “enslaved,” or tied to poles, as in a pergola system.

Fun fact

Near Lake Kaltern, it’s featured at a yearly “polenta party,” where the aforementioned grain is simmered in a large copper pot with ham, sausage and gorgonzola, then served alongside copious amounts of Schiava.

Wine Characteristics

Color

Strikingly light

Common styles

Light-bodied red

Blending partners

Lagrein, in Santa Maddelena / St. Magdalener DOC

Signature

Bitter almond

Food pairing

Speck and polenta, American Thanksgiving

“Around here,” said the winemaker, as he poured me a glass of brilliant, shimmering ruby-red liquid, “we like to think there are actually 4 types of wine: red, white, rosé… and Schiava.” It was Matthias Hauser – the oenologist at Alto Adige’s Castel Sallegg winery – who brought forth this revelation, noting in the most plain fashion how the best wines made from this historical Tyrolean grape sit firmly in the space between pink and red. It’s also why, when served with a slight chill, they are the perfect red wines for warmer weather.

Though it is the oldest native variety grown in Alto Adige, Schiava — also known as Vernatsch — isn’t cultivated much outside of the northern Italian region. (The only other significant area is Württemberg, Germany, where it’s called Trollinger.) Historically, the grape thrived as a peasant quaff; easy to grow, easy to drink, and low enough in alcohol to spawn another local aphorism: “the perfect wine for breakfast, lunch and dinner.” The area’s wealthier classes preferred the richer Lagrein, and so over time Schiava developed a reputation for not being particularly serious or interesting.

Recent improvements in both winemaking and clonal development (in particular with Schiava Grossa, the most common type) have led to a newfound quality in these wines. Though light in color and body, they offer a sneaky complexity. The best examples feature cherry and red berry notes, alongside violets, savory minerals, mountain herbs and bitter almonds. They’re super versatile with food, or can be enjoyed as an aperitif, and shine brightest when closer to cellar temp than room temp.

One issue with Schiava is that it isn’t always easy to find stateside. The good news is that Alto Adige is one of the best wine regions for consistent quality, so any bottle one comes across is at least worth trying.

Perhaps the top region to look out for is Lago di Caldaro DOC (Kalterersee in German), which, shockingly, surrounds Lake Caldaro, a popular tourist destination south of Bolzano near the Trentino border. The aforementioned Castel Sallegg — a private winery owned by the Count von Kuenburg (who describes Schiava as “the blood of this spot”) — produces an excellent version called Bischofsleiten that’s named after the Bishops of Trento, who owned the supplying vineyards some 1,000 years ago.

Kellerei Kaltern (or Cantina Caldero), the area’s large co-op winery, also produces several quality options. In particular their top line, Quintessenz — which is “made exclusively from the best grapes from [the] oldest and most typical sites” — produces a fantastic mineral-driven Schiava, where savory and salty flavors accentuate the typical cherry and red berry notes.

Highlighting the grape’s food friendliness, regional wine expert Judith Unterholzner described a yearly “Thanksgiving polenta party,” where the aforementioned grain is simmered in a large copper pot with ham, sausage and gorgonzola, then served alongside copious amounts of Schiava. It’s not, in fact, a bad idea for American Thanksgiving either, a simple, refreshing red that won’t clash with the absurdly diverse foodstuff we like to serve that day.

The other well-known (and thus easier to find) denomination is St. Magdalener, or Santa Maddalena, grown on the hillsides just north of central Bolzano. Here Schaiva is mixed with small portions of Lagrein, another historical local grape that adds body and complexity.

When choosing wines from this area, it’s important to note the Lagrein percentage used, as the bigger, bolder grape can easily take on a more prominent role. Take Untermorserhof’s Hueb St. Magdalener Classico, for example, which only uses 2-3%. It still tastes strongly of Schiava, with big cherry and mineral notes. Cantina Bolzano’s Moar St. Magdalener, on the other hand, contains 15% Lagrein and thus is richer, deeper and darker, though still showcases Schiava’s savory backbone. Both are excellent, but the former might better fit with the theme of this article.

Regardless of denomination, I pretty much buy Schiava — or Vernatsch, as it is sometimes labeled — whenever I come across it, and this strategy hasn’t steered me wrong thus far.

Kellerei Cantina Girlan, for example — another large co-op (of which there are many in Alto Adige) — located about halfway between Lake Caldero and Bolzano, produces the excellent Gschleier Alte Reben Vernatsch. Rose-scented with notes of tea, it’s loaded with deliciously pinkish fruit flavor.

Positioned south of Kaltern, Baron Widmann produces another interesting non-denomination Vernatsch that’s imported to the US, redolent of violets and earth, with huge cherry flavor. Widmann distributor Oliver McCrum just might sum Schiava up best, when he describes it as “a wine to be drunk and not discussed.”

Then again, I just discussed it for 10+ paragraphs. Regardless, grab a bottle this summer, cool it down a bit, and bring it out on the patio… for breakfast, lunch or dinner.

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By using browned butter, dark brown sugar and whole wheat flour, I’ve deepened the standard blondie recipe into a rich and decadent treat. (Ok, so maybe the “world’s darkest” descriptor is a bit of hyperbole… but these are still damn good!)

I’ve also attempted to up the healthiness factor by replacing some of the butter with extra virgin olive oil and by using whole wheat flour. Let’s not get crazy though — this recipe still contains a lot of sugar and butter.

For flour, I used 1/2 cup each of King Arthur Golden Wheat and Shibolim Stone Ground Extra Fine Whole Spelt, which I had on hand at the time. But any whole wheat pastry or white whole wheat should work fine here.

I’d also suggest starting with fewer chocolate chips than perhaps is normal in blondies — around 1/2 cup lets the buttery flavor of the batter take the lead, but still brings the occasional chocolate hit. That said, chocoholics who choose to add more chips will surely also be happy with the final result.

Ingredients

• 1 stick / 8 T / 1/2 Cup / 113g unsalted butter

• 4 T extra virgin olive oil

• 1 cup (*220g) packed dark brown sugar (light is ok, but dark is ideal for this recipe)

• 2 large eggs

• 1 T vanilla

• 1 cup (*170g) whole wheat pastry or white whole wheat flour (scoop and level)

• 1/2 t baking powder

• 1/4 t baking soda

• 1/2 t kosher salt

• flaky sea salt (optional)

• 1/2-1 cup chocolate chips (optional)

*I’ve included approximate grams measurements here, but I did not test the recipe using these measurements, so YMMV

Instructions

Preheat oven to 350F. Grease 9x9 baking dish.

Add EVOO to large bowl. Brown butter on stovetop. Add butter to EVOO, then add brown sugar and mix well. Let cool for 10-15 minutes.

Mix dry ingredients in a medium bowl.

Add eggs and vanilla to butter/sugar mixture. Then mix in dry ingredients. Lastly, mix in chips, if using.

Pour into baking dish. Sprinkle top with a pinch of flaky sea salt, if desired.

Cook until middle is just set and at least 185F, around 25-30 minutes. Let cool completely before serving.

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I recently posted something on social media — a throwaway idea, nothing substantial — about “Bolognese,” aka ragù alla Bolognese, which I also referred to as a famous “Italian” pasta sauce. Because the post was not something I gave much consideration to, yet of course desired maximum interaction for, I also grabbed a photo from Creative Commons to jazz it up a bit. It all seemed harmless. To my enduring shame, however, the photo I foolishly chose (see above) paired Bolognese with… spaghetti.

The reaction was swift.

For days, no exaggeration, I found myself defending this hasty photo selection to Italians — that is, to be clear, people who actually reside in Italy — who came out of the woodwork to tell me that what I had posted was not, after all, Italian, at least not in the traditional, authentic sense. Because, it turns out, tagliatelle is the pasta the Bolognese pair with ragù in the 21st century. Never spaghetti. I was well and resolutely scolded.

Beyond this embarrassing personal folly, Italian recipes in particular have become a hotbed of authenticity challenges online. Take, as exhibit #1, the popularity of the social media account “Italians mad at food,” for example, in which bona fide experts tell the world what is wrong with their cooking. Or this gripping scandal that recently captured the entire country’s attention: when Carlo Cracco, one of Italy’s most well-known chefs and television personalities, drew ire nationwide after suggesting — ON TV! — that adding garlic to Amatriciana was a good idea.

(I could go on…)

Naturally, this led me to ask myself: what defines authenticity anyway?

For something like ragù alla Bolognese, Amatriciana, or any of the myriad other famous and not so famous Italian recipes, what first leaps to mind of course, is tradition. The idea that this is the way it’s always been made, passed down from generation to generation. A technique or idea that must be preserved as it was to be considered authentic now.

But here’s the twist: that’s often not the reality, even with the things we consider to be most authentic.

For ragù alla Bolognese specifically, for example, when food historian Luca Cesari — in his outstanding book, The Discovery of Pasta — went looking for records of it in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, he found very little. And what he did find is quite enlightening.

The oldest recipe available was not published, but rather kept in a handwritten collection gathered by the cook for the bishop of Imola (near Bologna) during the late 1700s. In this case, Alberto Alvisi’s recipe, “ragù for sauced macaroni,” was essentially a stew of veal or pork loin or chicken gizzards, chopped finely and cooked with onions and broth (no tomato yet). Of particular importance here is that this early recipe called for maccheroni— then a generic name for tubular or short pasta — not tagliatelle, the supposed (according to my online friends) traditional Bolognese choice for ragù.

A century later, when Pellegrino Artusi published his groundbreaking 1891 cookbook, La scienza in cucina e l’arte di mangiar bene (“Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well”) — a seminal tome that helped to unify Italy’s regional cuisines for the first time and even today remains foundational to modern Italian cuisine — he also called for maccheroni, in this case specifying denti di cavallo (“horse teeth”), a shape that somewhat resembles rigatoni.

Another interesting example came from Giulia Lazzari-Turco, who noted within her recipe for “pasta condita alla bolognese” in 1908’s Il piccolo focolare that the ragù “goes best with tagliatelle, taglierini and smooth or ridged macaroni.” Two things jump out there: first, that multiple pasta options are welcomed, and, more importantly, that there is no communication of a strict requirement. These are the optimal options, Lazzari-Turco seems to be saying, but not the only ones.

The early Bolognese recipe evolved over time, eventually adding tomato, of course, as well as settling on tagliatelle, a popular pasta in the region, as its preferred partner. The key here, notably, is that it indeed evolved, as human recipes always do. In other words, this illustrates why the idea of “this is the way it has always been done” is almost always bunk.

In a different chapter, Cesari took aim at the purity of Carbonara, this being another pasta recipe that seems to attract hard line traditionalists. I’m reminded, for example, of a scene from the No Reservations Rome episode, when one of Bourdain’s local expert helpers got into a heated exchange with the also local restaurant owner, because they had added some — gasp! — fresh zucchini blossoms to their Carbonara.

Looking at the history, however, Cesari’s research managed to show not only that the first published Carbonara recipe was done so in English, in the US, but that early recipes — even Italian ones — often contained wacky ingredients such as clams, ham, mushrooms, and, believe it or not, cream.

But now let’s move away from pasta, to another foodstuff that also inspires passion and devotion: Philadelphia’s cheesesteak. Though a mostly local dish until the 1990s, the explosion of food-centric TV and the internet have more recently turned it into a global phenomenon. And what’s the most famous thing about the cheesesteak? Why, the neon yellow, gloopy, gloppy, exceptionable processed dairy of choice for this sandwich, of course: Cheese Whiz.

While conducting research for my book, A History Of Philadelphia Sandwiches, however, I learned a few interesting things about cheesesteaks, Cheese Whiz and authenticity. For one, the very first steak sandwich made by Pat Olivieri — who is widely credited for popularizing the dish in Philly — had no cheese at all. (It was just steak and onions.) In fact, cheese didn’t appear until almost twenty years later! And while there is some debate among those in the know over whether the original Pat’s CHEESE steak featured American or Provolone, one thing it definitely didn’t have was Cheese Whiz.

And yet, today cheesesteaks and Cheese Whiz are inextricably linked. So, which is the truly authentic cheese? Clearly, Whiz was not part of the original cheesesteak. On the other hand, most of the cheesesteaks at the city’s most well-known shops today — such as Pat’s, Geno’s and Jim’s — do feature Whiz. In 2015, for example, Pat’s current owner Frank Olivieri Jr. said about 60 percent of his customers chose Whiz, followed by provolone, then American.

Obviously, the fact that more people order Whiz does not make it superior. But does it make Whiz more authentic? Maybe.

Perhaps instead of a strict adherence to tradition, then, authenticity is instead derived from the people themsleves, i.e., what is perceived to be authentic becomes authentic. This notion reminds me of how — while researching my monograph on Chianti Classico — I came across a fascinating academic paper that discussed Tipo Chianti, the California wine brand made in the style of (dare I say authentic) Italian Chianti — and sold in those same straw-covered flasks — in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

“Current notions of authenticity, based as they are on the unique geographies of taste, would never recognize Tipo Chianti as ‘real’ Chianti” wrote Harvard professor Zachary Nowak.

But perceptions were different back then. “This Californian Chianti was not a product that Americans were fooled into buying, ignorant of the real thing,” he continued. “They bought Chianti made in both California and in Italy, and saw both as equally authentic.”

Another thought here is that authenticity is deeply personal. In my own family, as one example, we follow a number of food traditions passed down from my great grandparents, who came to the US from Palermo. In Sicily’s capital city, street food is king, with the now ubiquitous arancine as well as the lesser-known pani câ meusa, literally bread with spleen, a sandwich that also includes caciocavallo and (optionally) ricotta cheeses.

When my family, however, went to make the latter in their new home — to celebrate the return of meat after Christmas Eve midnight mass — they couldn’t easily find spleen, thus substituted crispy bacon, and (obviously) never went back. As far as cheese goes, at some point ricotta became the main ingredient, and sharp provolone often filled in for the difficult to source caciocavallo.

Today, what we call vastedda (the name of the roll this sandwich is served on) is one of my family’s most cherished holiday traditions. But is it authentic? I would have to say no, not by any measure, when one considers that pani câ meusa is still readily available in Palermo. But it is certainly authentic to us.

For anyone to understand and accept the eventual truth here, it is crucial to come to terms with the idea that ingredients, techniques and preferences are constantly evolving, and there is likely nothing we could ever do to stop this (as long as human civilization exists, at least). And that just because most of us may not always notice these traditions slowly changing around us does not mean they are not.

In the end, I am tempted to conclude that either anything can be authentic, or that maybe nothing is authentic. Perhaps it truly is all in the eye of the beholder. As an alternative to the definitive answer, then, I might instead offer the following advice:

Embracing the idea of authenticity — a deep connection to a certain place, culture or time — can absolutely be rewarding, so by all means do enjoy the foods, drinks, etc. that are authentic to you, your family, culture, etc. Cherish them, learn about them, share them with others (and learn about their own authentic things), and especially pass them along to your next generation. But also accept them with grains of salt and humility; understand that these things have changed, do change, and will continue to change.

Lastly — and perhaps most importantly — please don’t use them as a reason to yell at strangers on the internet.

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References & further reading

Cesari, Luca. The Discovery of Pasta: A History in Ten Dishes. Pegasus Books, 2023.

Madaio, Mike. A History of Philadelphia Sandwiches: Steaks, Hoagies, Iconic Eateries and More. The History Press, 2024.

Madaio, Mike. Becoming Chianti Classico: A Wine Region’s Fight for Authenticity. Life at Table, 2024.

Novak, Zachary, “A Transnational Fiasco : Authenticity, Two Chiantis, and the Unimportance of Place.” Global Food History, 5 (June 2018): 1–20.

Limnio Basics

Why care about Limnio?

Limnio is considered to be one of the oldest known wine-making grapes, dating back to Ancient Greece, and is unlike anything else I’ve tasted; seek it out for something unique and different.

Pronunciation

LIM-nee-oh

Key region

Works best in the cooler climates of Macedonia and Thrace, Greece

Producers I like

Domaine Kikones

Findability in the US

Difficult. (Domaine Tatsis is probably the easiest to find)

History

Origin / Etymology

Likely comes from the Aegean island of Lemnos

Synonym

Kalambaki (on Lemnos)

Mentioned as early as

While there are many claims that this is the same grape as the Lemnia mentioned by Aristotle and other Ancient Greeks, it is unlikely that it was exactly the same as the grape grown today.

Fun fact

Hippocrates once claimed that Lemnia wine relieved sore throats.

Wine Characteristics

What It’s Like

It’s perhaps best compared to Pinot Noir, due to its light color and minimal tannins, but it does not taste anything like Pinot. Instead it offers flavors of blueberry, along with herbs and a touch of savory earth.

Blending partners

Cabernet Sauvignon and Franc

Signature

Herbal note that may be reminiscent of bay leaves

Food pairing

Roasted or grilled meats, aged cheese

Perhaps the most fascinating and wonderful aspect of studying Italian cuisine is how it varies so widely, not only region to region but town to town. As one explores the countryside, uphill, then downhill, one hilltop battlement to the next, there’s always some delicacy, secret recipe or traditional dish to discover.

Awhile back I spent some time in Ripatransone, a hill town located in southern Marche, beautifully situated between the Adriatic coast and the inland mountains. Here I discovered lu ciavarre (or ciavarro), a traditional vegetable dish that speaks to the tradition and toil of this small area.

Made primarily from a variety of legumes and grains, lu ciavarre, like so many other recipes, evolved out of necessity. In the spring season, as new crops begin to produce, farmers needed to make space in their stores, so they cooked a simple stew of the previous year’s leftovers. (The word ciavarro, in the local dialect, essentially means a set of different things with each other.)

Historically, ciavarro was eaten on May Day, or May 1st, a longtime European holiday or festival to celebrate the arrival of spring, now Labor Day in Italy. Today, it’s prepared in town during La Passatella, a food & wine walk that takes place on some summer Friday nights.

My own first taste took place at Ristorante Lu Cuccelò (the snail), a small pizzeria near the center of town. We went for lunch thinking pie, only to find that the lunch menu didn’t include it, something that’s relatively common in Italy and (I suppose) sensible considering the heat of a wood oven at midday. Instead, I found myself digging into a hearty, soul-affirming bowl of ciavarro, blown away by its depth of flavor and comforting essence.

Though I wasn’t aware at the time, Lu Cuccelò owner/chef Paola is known around these parts as an expert in the dish, and she was kind enough to share the technique with me.

Basic ingredients:

• Grains such as bulgar wheat, barley, polenta, corn, farro.

• Legumes such as chickpeas, field peas, peas, kidney beans, white beans and lentils.

• Paola suggests about 50g of each ingredient per person, 200g for 4 people.

Other ingredients:

• 200gr of lean pork (Many recipes call for bacon or “pork rinds”, though ground pork can also work well)

• 400gr soffrito (mirepoix; finely chopped onion, carrot and celery)

• 200ml dry white wine

• 400g peeled tomatoes

• Some recipes also call for adding a bit of garlic, bay leaf, chili to the sauce

Technique:

The legumes and grains should be soaked in different containers and boiled in different pots, cooked to their own directions. (In a pinch you can use canned, cooked beans.) Save some of the bean water to use in the sauce to achieve the proper texture.

• Brown pork in a large stockpot with some EVOO

• De-glaze pan with white wine

• Add tomatoes (crush if not already)

• Add cooked legumes and grains (plus some extra water)

• Simmer for 15-30 minutes to thicken and combine

Serve with warm bread, hard cheese and a nice Rosso Piceno.

Lastly, here’s a video from an Italian-language cooking show of Paola preparing the dish:

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Catalanesca Basics

Why care about Catalanesca?

Though a rare grape only grown in a small area of Mt. Vesuvius, Catalanesca makes wines that find a lovely balance between rich fruit notes, high acidity and telltale minerality.

Pronunciation

Cat-ah-la-nes-ca

Key region

Mt. Vesuvius, Campania, Italy

Main Denomination

Catalanesca del Monte Somma IGT

Producers I like

Cantine Olivella

Findability in the US

Difficult. (I got it from Eataly.)

History

Origin / Etymology

Legend says it was brought to Campania from Catalonia during the brief Aragonese reign of the 1400s, hence the geographically-themed moniker. There’s also a story about it having to do with King Alphonso V and his love affair with Lucrezia d'Alagno, but that’s probably apocryphal.

Party Pooping Scientific Fact

The DNA profile of Catalanesca does not match any known Spanish variety, but there is evidence it is related to other Italian varieties.

Mentioned as early as

1400s

Recency Bias

Despite having been used for family winemaking in the Vesuvius (Monte Somma) area for centuries, and perhaps being part of the traditional Lacryma Christi white blend, Catalanesca has only been officially allowed in designated wines since 2006.

Fun facts

1. Has long been used as a table grape due to its natural sweetness.

2. A late ripener that was, historically, sometimes left on the vine until Christmas.

3. Grows on original rootstocks, due to volcanic soil’s resistance to phylloxera.

Wine Characteristics

Common style

High acidity to match rich stone fruits and mineral notes. Can also be made into a passito sweet wine or a sparkling wine.

Food pairing

Fish, legumes

Rarely grown in its native region of Burgundy, Pinot Blanc — as it’s called in most of the English-speaking world — has found more of a home in the Germanic regions of Alsace, Austria and throughout Germany. The majority of wines made here, as well as in the US in this style, are soft and round, sometimes off-dry in a way that might be described as Riesling Light. Jancis Robinson describes the grape as “useful rather than exciting,” as well as “gently rather than demandingly appealing,” having less character than the already tofu-like Chardonnay, as well as low body and acidity.

(I’ll wait while you rush out to buy some.)

All that said, one can understand why my expectations are relatively low when given the opportunity to taste through a bunch of Bianco from Italy’s Alto Adige, perhaps the only region in the world where the grape is highly regarded.

The first bottle I pop, the Cantina Terlano Nova Domus, absolutely explodes with complexity, including honey, melon, minerals and, most notably, herbs. Because this particular wine is a blend (60% Pinot Bianco, 30% Chardonnay, 10% Sauvignon Blanc) — despite the fact that it is mostly Bianco — I find myself initially attributing the big flavors to Chard (melon) and Sauv Blanc (herbs). Still, the immensity of herbal flavor is a head-scratcher, if there’s only a splash of Sauvignon.

As I delve further, moving on to pure varietal bottlings, I begin to realize that this herbal, mineral quality is actually derived from the Bianco itself. In wines such as the Elena Walch Pinot Bianco, this quality is intense, powerfully rippling through every aspect of the fresh, vibrant wine.

So what’s the deal here? How is this notoriously taciturn grape showing such exuberance and vitality? I turned to local wine expert Judith Unterholzner for answers. “Especially when Pinot Bianco is cultivated in an Alpine climate, it can be surprisingly fleshy and rich in its herbal, honeyed yellow-fruit aromas and flavors,” she shared. In recent years, it turns out, the best Alto Adige winemakers have shifted their Bianco vines upward, moving from the valleys and lower slopes (which made more typical, tasteless wine) to upper elevations, starting at 1300 feet and running up to 2500. A reduction in yields as well as the introduction of guyot vine training (in addition to the traditional pergola method) has also helped make an impact.

In other words, much of the secret is location. “The unique aroma profile of our Pinot Bianco is due to the terroir of Terlano, which is responsible for scents of chamomile but also fresh flower meadows,” said Unterholzner. “The rich nose as well as the full and complex mouthfeel is markedly influenced by our eruptive soils, which also cause a powerful salty persistence.”

In the Alto Adige, there’s a seriousness regarding Bianco here that isn’t evident elsewhere. “Winemaking in Terlano traditionally involves the use of wooden casks,” continued Unterholzner. “Special emphasis is also placed on the sur lie method, with the wines often left to evolve on the yeast for years before being bottled, where they’re aged even further. The focus is on developing the complex secondary and tertiary aromas, which creates a specific character and complexity.”

Wines for Aging

It’s also fascinating how tightly-wound these wines are when young. Huge acidity — which often isn’t the case with Pinot Bianco from elsewhere — as well as those aggressive herbal and saline notes. The aforementioned Terlano Nova Domus, though quite complex and nuanced already, seems to be holding back, even at 5 years old. Though it can be decanted and enjoyed now, the winery suggests drinking no earlier than 8 years from the vintage date.

St. Pauls Passion Pinot Bianco Riserva is another beast, offering a dank, feral nose, herbs and rocks belying slumbering fruit. I’d love to try it again with 3-5 years of age. Cantina Andriano Finado, five years after vintage, begins to showcase the benefits of age, with notes of honey and tropical fruit emerging to balance out the savory flavors.

“The aging potential of our wines is due to a combination of the high mineral content of the soils, old vines growing in complete harmony, carefully managed vineyards with low yields per vine, and the rigorous selection of healthy and fully mature grapes,” continued Unterholzner. “At several tastings back to the foundational years, our whites have proved to be liquid time machines, leaving their mark in memory as the supreme expression of a mineral terroir that is unique in this world.”

The Happy Ending

With wines this complex and intriguing, it’s hard to not wonder why more winemakers aren’t taking Bianco seriously. “Other regions have not believed in Pinot Bianco as an expressive variety with the ability to age,” agreed Unterholzner. “Thus it is difficult to compare our mature whites with those from other regions.”

Then again, it may just be one of those romantic, idealistic stories. Pinot Bianco, a rogue from Burgundy, sets off in search of itself, and finds an unlikely home in the Dolomites. Hallmark Channel here we come.

“Pinot Bianco has always been one of our main varieties,” concluded Unterholzner. “It’s a powerful expression of the terroir that brings the grapes to maturity in Terlano. Delicate, and above all minerally, Pinot Bianco wines are very much our trademark and Terlano’s ambassadors of longevity.”

Tocai Friulano Basics

Why care about Tocai Friulano?

This is the flagship white grape of arguably Italy's finest region for whites, and produces a wide range of delicious wines.

Pronunciation

Tohk-eye Free-oo-la-no

Key region

Friuli Venezia Giulia, Italy

Producers I like

Livio Felluga • Ronchi di Cialla • Vie de Romans

Findability in the US

Relatively easy. Many specialty stores do carry Friulano, though sourcing specific bottles can be difficult.

History

Origin

Most likely comes from the Auvergne region of France, where it is known as Sauvignonasse, among other names. Brought to Italy in the late 18 or early 1900s.

Known parent of

Chenin Blanc

Mentioned as early as

1840s (France), 1930s (Italy)

Synonyms

Tocai, Sauvignonasse

Etymology

Tocai: to piggyback on the fame of Hungary's Tokay

Friulano: I’ll let y’all figure this one out

Sauvignonasse: literally, Sauvignon-like

Name Confusion

In Chile, it is known as Sauvignon Vert, which is a misnomer. (“Sauvignon Vert” refers to a different grape in France.)

Fun fact

The grape is technically still called Tocai Friulano in the Italian national registry, but the word "Tocai" is no longer allowed on EU wine labels because of its similarity to the famous Hungarian region. Thus it is more common to just see “Friulano.”

Wine Characteristics

Common styles

The traditional choice for a Friulian tajut (small glass of wine at the local bar), Friulano can be light and easy in this context, but recent years have also seen it made into rich, complex and age-worthy wines.

Signature

Sweet almond-ish muskiness, herbs

Classic food pairing

Frico

Each year, I have momentary delusions of grandeur of baking my own Colomba, the traditional Easter bread/cake that’s shaped like a dove. But I usually come to my senses around a week or two before Easter, as baking is not my forte and I generally lack the time and patience for such an endeavor. Thankfully, a fortuitous trip to my local Italian store, Carlino’s, can bring me face to face with a freshly baked Colomba instead. For a nice low price, fruity, cakey goodness arrives without hassle or strife.

Though the history of Colomba di Pasqua – or Colomba Pasquale, literally “Easter Dove” – like so many other traditional Italian dishes, is disputed, it’s not hard to deduce that the dove shape (which, let’s be honest, this just barely resembles) represents peace. Also without dispute is the fact that Milanese baker Angelo Motta – best known for industrializing the production of Panettone in the 1920s – is responsible for the widespread enjoyment of Colomba.

Other than the obvious difference in shape and lack of raisins, Colomba’s yeast dough is similar to Panettone. For a layman, the flavor profile – candied citrus, mostly – and texture are virtually identical, though levels of sweetness can vary. For an added burst of flavor, the Easter Dove is traditionally topped with almonds and pearl sugar crystals.

Colomba’s arrival at table typically signals the end of Easter lunch — where it can be enjoyed straight up, or perhaps with some berries, whipped cream or chocolate. If there’s a knock on this treat (and Panettone), it’s that the insides dry out easily and can often seem stale. That’s why, for me, the best way to eat either is some butter and a few minutes on the griddle, or even as French Toast, if the particular loaf isn’t too sweet.

I know what I’ll be eating Easter Morning…

Welcome to The Grape-down! Each edition features my quick breakdown of a grape that more people should know about. Today, Lagrein…

Lagrein Basics

Why care about Lagrein?

In a sea of uniformity, Lagrein’s unique alpine florals mark it as a red wine for the adventurous taster.

Pronunciation

Lah-grine (rhymes with wine)

Key region

Alto Adige, Italy

Climate

Though Alpine, Lagrein thrives in the bowl created by the mountains around Bolzano, one of Italy’s hottest areas in the summer

Producers I like

Alois Lageder • Kaltern • Manincor • Nusserhoff • Terlan • Tiefenbrunner • Tramin

Findability in the US

Relatively easy. Many specialty stores do carry Lagrein, though sourcing specific bottles can be difficult. Check wine.com.

History

Known parents

Teroldego

Mentioned as early as

1067

Etymology

Likely derives from Val Lagarina in Trentino, though other hypotheses exist

Fun fact

One of the peasant demands during a 1526 revolt against the local gentry was more access to Lagrein

Wine Characteristics

Color

Strikingly dark

Common styles

Medium-full bodied red, rosé

Signature

Brunelle (local orchid) floral note

Food pairing

Stewed or grilled meats, mushroom polenta