Visions of Vinitaly 2009: Io, pezzo grosso

Pezzo grosso means "big shot" -- literally "big piece" but let's not overinterpret -- and not for the first time I've thought about the absence of pezzi grossi from the endless pavilions of Vinitaly.  I mean, what's Vinitaly like for Jancis Robinson and her husband, food critic Nick Lander?  For Robert Parker or, more likely, one of his minions?  For James Suckling, who probably has to show up with a half-dozen huge, hairy and strikingly handsome bodyguards?   And what if you're one of the politically connected Italian journalists who never has to stand in line for press passes or a chance to speak with and write puff pieces on  winemakers/merchants who are themselves pezzi grossi, even international wine-media stars?

"Imaging" or directed daydreaming or whatever it was called in those management books of the 80s emphasized the importance of creating scenarios in your mind, partly to rehearse desired outcomes of a meeting, negotiation or guerrilla attack.  And partly to consider alternatives, to open your stale corporate mind to new possibilities for success, riches and assorted triumphs of the will.  So here, boys and girls, is my self-fulfilling proleptic vision of ultimate Vinitaly privilege...

<---- Typical pezzo grosso

I land on time at mid-morning at Venice's Marco Polo airport.  I'm well rested.  I rode in Business Class, drank passable Bordeaux and took two Ambien soon after dinner.  I am whisked through passport control, where they smile kindly upon my British passport, and somehow my luggage appears before me.  A discreet gentleman carries it all for me.  When we arrive outside the controlled area, a dignified white-haired man who could be Italy's ambassador to Paris or London whispers that he is my driver.  Both men shoo me outside to the Bentley, where grower Champagne (I will have nothing to do with Franciacorta) and the soothing sounds of crashing surf on the B&O sound system await me.  I sip and fall into a deep sleep.  The sleep of the best.

When I wake we have stopped outside a Palladian villa.  "But where are the pavilions? The crowds?  The honking drivers and the thousands of trudging wretches?" I ask.  "Where is the lively and beautiful via Giovanni Scopoli?"

My driver laughs.  "Oh, Signor Hughes" -- he actually pronounces it right -- "you don't have to go near that manicomio [madhouse] anymore.  They will come to you."

A villa something like this but not this.  In case someone wants to sue for something

As I ponder this turn of fate, this ascension, I emerge from the Bentley, draping my new Brioni jacket over my chilled shoulders.  I imagine I look quite the cool Italian with my coat over my shoulders and sunglasses permanently affixed to my face.  I shiver.  Despite the green beauty of the countryside, it is rather damp and cool, with a brisk wind that makes sitting outdoors at cafes in the Piazza dell'Erbe a test of hardihood for Norwegians.  Vinitaly weather indeed.

It matters not.  A rumpled old gent totters down the steps and shakes my hand warmly.  He says he is the Count of Something or Other and is deeply honored to welcome me as his guest.  He leads me into a warm room with a blazing wood fire.

The Count asks me if I should like to rest a while before I receive my first supplicants. 

"I am rather jetlagged, ecktcherly," I drawl, effortlessly assuming a mid-Atlantic accent.  "A bit of kip would do me up proper."  Oh-uh.  Landed on the wrong side of the class divide with that one.  Italians don't get our ironic humour, wot?

The Count looks at me askance.  He has one of his footmen or whatever they are escort me to my splendidly ornate room.  It looks like the sort of place where you lie in state and a cardinal comes to send you on your redeemed way.  Anyway, I sleep for an hour or two.  And wake to a sumptuous lunch on a tray with a huge pot of American coffee.  I think they didn't have me downstairs to lunch because they were uncertain of my table manners.

As I finish my fifth cup of coffee there comes a discreet knock and an even more discreet cough at my door.  "Begging your pardon, sir, your first appointments have arrived.  I shall guide you to the salon where you shall receive them."  This is all in Italian, but it's that kind of Italian.  Leopardi or even Ariosto would feel comfortable with the level of diction.

I follow this elegant servant down to a predictably huge and coldly formal drawing room.  A line of fidgeting men and women, all dressed to impress, sit along one of the walls.  I choose a place so I don't have to look at them; if I could see them, I would be ashamed and treat them better than they deserve. 

The servant brings them to me one by one, and we sit at a table between two sofas and taste their wines as they spiel on and on about terroir and tradition and their great-great-grandfathers.  And their extraordinary investments in the latest technology and new French barriques, averring always that they are enhancing tradition rather than betraying it.  Many of them speak of their Tre Bicchieri and other high ratings in both Italian guides and American publications.  With furtive glances and the rouge of embarrassment they mention Suckling and Parker.  I wonder how many thousands of euros -- real money, not our neo-lira greenback -- they have thrown at the opinion-makers of wine.

As I sip and take notes, I think it odd because, although these people come from every part of Italy, from Sicily to the Swiss and Austrian borders, their red wines taste pretty similar (not in a good way), while their whites are fresher, tastier and less pretentious. Yet all their prizes, awards and points are for the reds.  I don't get it.  Well, of course, I really do.  But at least I didn't have to traipse for miles and miles for days and days to come to this realization yet again.

I glance over my shoulder and see that only a couple of people are waiting to see me.  I'm prepared to sigh and say to hell with it, let's call it a day.  But I see a producer whom I like very much.  A simpler sort of bloke than the silk-suited bunch I'd been dallying with.  He sits in front of me wearing his jeans and a sports jacket that was in style back in Berlusconi I.  He gives me a nervous, doubtful smile.

I lose my murmurous upper-class demeanor and exclaim, "____!  What are you doing hanging around with these fucking stiffs!"  In Italian, but it's that kind of Italian.  A longshoreman in Livorno would feel comfortable with the level of diction.

Shaking a little from uncertainty, he places his samples on the table.  The bottles are open, the reds have had plenty of time to breathe.  I don't need to taste them again -- I've tasted them many times. 

He seems intent on pouring them, so I say nothing.  He gives me a direct gaze.  "I heard you were getting the VIP treatment.  I knew I wouldn't be seeing you at the stand.  Nobody big from the States or England ever reviews us.  But I wanted to make sure a friend tasted the wines and maybe would say something nice." 

We taste and discuss the wines.  We spend a long time over them, so much that the remaining couple of producers get up and leave in a huff.  So what.  I still love his wines.  He's a great guy.

We run out of things to say.  It gets awkward.  ____ says, "I suppose you have a big dinner tonight.  With Jancis Robinson and Josh Greene and other pezzi grossi."  To be fair, I saw Josh wandering the aisles like everyone else at other Vinitalys.

"Honestly, no.  Just with Prince F_____, but he's going to jail next week.  It may be a downer.  I'll blow it off.  We can eat horsemeat and pasta at that little place near Nadali's."

"But is that wise?  Won't that be a problem for VIPism next year?"

"Look, ____, the best thing about being a VIP is never having to say you're sorry." 

Huh.

I will miss Business Class and the chauffeur.

 

Comments

[Lisa Qiu]

This is just a taste of your future, don't forget the little people.

[gabrio]

I didn't know you do drugs...:)

[TH]

Gabrio, there's so much you don't know about me.