mondosapore

"Why don't you write about wine anymore?" And what 2009 will bring

Dear Readers,

This isn't Strappo writing or Terence behind a screen, doing a bit.  This is me.  This is the same guy who's been writing this blog for over 3 years and who's devoted more time and energy to it than even I can believe.  For most of this time it has been "my toy, my dream, my rest," as John Berryman* wrote.  Mondosapore sustained me through dark times (my own deepest most suicidal depression), enlarged my world and fed my longing for immersion in the world of wine.  It opened my mind and my eyes to a new start in life, an exciting if risky new phase that thrills me every day (almost).

Yet, as you've seen since I wrote a post on wine-blogging blues in the autumn, I have written less about wine than ever.  Posted less often.  Lost interest or perhaps the over-intense attention to the blog and my stats.  The number of visits and page views has been sinking and the numbers are lower than they have been in a very long time.  I don't much care.

Once I would have written more and more in a frenzy.  I would have commented all over the place, haunting other blogs as if I were my own one-man viral marketing department.  I would have, in that way, promoted the brand. 

I discussed this some time ago with Susannah Gold of avvinare. She said, "Sure you're bored.  It happens.  Post less often.  Don't try to do it every day.  Try to keep a 3-post-a-week schedule.  Don't let mondosapore go. It's your brand, your identity.  It's the entry into Domenico Selections!" 

And another recurring comment closer to home (at home, in fact).  Ken asks me, "Why don't you write about wine anymore?  No one cares about all this personal crap." 

They're both right.  But why am I resistant to their sound advice?  Why is it so damned important right now that my life "is a open book," is my brother Steve wrote me?

That last question is one that I don't know I can answer.  Maybe someone else can play shrink and help me sort it out.  I can say, though, that my relationship to and views of wine have undergone a sea change.  It's massive and I feel, frankly, at sea myself.  So join me as I sort of think out loud on this virtual paper.

 

* Great depressive alcoholic suicidal mid-20th Century American poet.  I realize those descriptors are redundant.

 

 

 

How to deal with the Depression

The inspiration and, in fact, the source of this entry is from my boyhood friend, Dickie Kaplan.  We were talking about the ever more dire economy and the cautious optimism we feel as Obama's term finally is within sight.  We agreed that the new president needs to resurrect some form of the WPA and soon.  After all, the original WPA put millions to work, instilled confidence in The System and put some jingle back in America's pockets. And we're still using those (now crumbling) schools, firehouses, post offices and bridges today, almost 80 years later.  Yep, FDR used the opportunity to Invest in America.  Except for Ike and LBJ, the last national CEO to do so.  The rest of them have been more attuned to stripping the Firm's assets and shipping them to China.

As we spoke about the wine business, I told Dick that while restaurants seem to be seeing fewer patrons and smaller checks, with a commensurate trading-down in wine purchases, so far retail shops appear to be holding their own. 

Indeed, if you want to save money and have a good time, buy a couple of bottles, have a some friends over and cook or order in.  People did a lot of that during Depression I.  They played the upright piano, sang in harmony and danced the fox trot.  They called it "making our own fun."  I'll assume that the fun part came from the camaraderie of drunken friends who made fools of themselves trying to jitterbug.

I'll take this a step further.  Or two.  I'll say that to really save your dough and hunker down, all the while having a swell time, buy yourself a few bottles of tasty Italian wine, purchase some salty savory snacks and repair to your room in the boarding house where you can wile away the Depression with no one standing over your shoulder, monitoring your behavior.  No inane conversation either.  No having to fake interest in some crummy play or the exploits of someone's sixth-grade Little League champion.  You'll feel good for hours and hours.  Your cares will disappear and your heart will swell with joy. 

And even later, when you awake in the grey dawn and feel like roadkill, you'll concentrate so hard on recovering that you'll forget the unpaid bills and the uncountable days to the next unemployment check.

I'd like to encapsulate this in a catchy little slogan:  "Drink alone, sip in peace, do it for the Strapster."

 

Support your local Strapster.  Drink often & alone for maximum fun

Christmas afternoon. Richmond, Virginia, 2008.

It smells like spring here in the mild sun. The fountain plashes without concession to cold. Green sprouts peek out among the grasses. The sun westers in pearly cirrus clouds. The Canada geese hear the corporate loudspeakers offer their other-goose warning, a code orange that causes no panic and hardly any notice.

The bare trees, the pines, the flag of Virginia all gleam in the breeze-born sunshine. Mild and sunny the near new year already beckons and asks, "What crisis?".

Oh Christmas is easy to take under these blue skies and in this temperate warmth. Memories take on a burnished tint and the fears that haunt the world seem far gone and trifling at any rate. At any.

Here there's peace.

Ci sia pace da te.

Buon Natale. Merry Christmas.

Life begins anew each day.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

The dreaded Christmas letter

Dear Amici (Friends) and Tifosi (Fans),

Gosh, it's hard to believe that another year has passed and Christmas is almost here again!  And it's so cold this year, it really feels like Christmas for a change. Bring on the rum fruit cake -- wheeeeee! 

Well, to get this Xmas message rolling, let me introduce myself, Heather Strappley, the grand-niece of Uncle Strappo, who is just so busy that he asked me to write this to you, and he sends all his love and appreciation to you for your encouragement and support!!  "Heather," he told me, "we all have so much to be thankful for at this time of the year, even if the economy is going to s**t and restaurants are closing like a nun's ********** (!!!!)"  He is really incorrigible!  LOL!!!

On a sadder note, our distant cousin Heino von Strapfschloss in Alto Adige notes the passing of "a great Austrian, Joerg Haider."  We feel your pain, Heino, and if Joerg ("George"?) had been an American, I'm sure he would have been a great American too.  (sigh.)

 

Bill O'Reilly, a true Xmas patriot!!

He luvs Xmas almost as much as me!  LOL!

But let's return to ye Olde Christmas cheer. 

I'm happy to note that our cousin Alessandro Strappolini managed to get a loan before the big credit meltdown to embark on a new venture!  He and his "S.O." Giovanna have started a wine by-products company where they take in excess grapes, mostly pretty good ones from Brunello, and turn them into a whole raft of great beauty and health products -- wine bath soaps, resveratrol face creams, purgative suppositories and other "affordable luxuries".  They're very excited about the results of their first six months sales -- most of their products went to the Gulf Emirates and Monaco, where they are really crazy about the suppositories.  They wish everyone a happy and prosperous New Year.  Lucky them, they are vacationing in San Marino right now along with Alessandro's folks, "Sal" and "Pepella".  Alex is darned grateful to be 43 and still living rent-free with his parents.  When we spoke on the phone he said, "Without mamma and papa', I could not realize my dreams."  (sob!)  Or get his ironing done. (lol)

Speaking of Alessandro, one of the other Alessandro Strappolinis -- this one from Piemonte -- says the harvest was so poor this year, in quality and quantity, he's making a special Economic Collapse vinegar that he'll sell for 50 eurocents a liter while he feasts on nettles and grubs this year.  What a card!  I never knew Italians actually had a sense of humor!!  It's as surprising as hearing a Chinese tell a dirty joke involving a Mandarin a Buddhist monk and a Taoist!

I'd like to extend warm season's greetings to Uncle Strappo's son Eric who turned 32 yesterday!  Strappo didn't call or write him because, as Uncle "Straps" said, "He never calls or writes me."  !!!!  WTF!!!!  These proud, stubborn men, bless 'em!  (ROTFL)

Thanks to the miracle of blogging, Uncle Strappo has reconnected some members of his magnificently dysfunctional family.  I'd say that it has been, on the whole, a positive experience:  good rapport with 2 brothers and a nephew, a self-righteous sneer from one brother (who actually ate his own poop when he was two years old!!! GA-ROSS!) -- I'm really happy to see the unks more or less reconcile in time for this heart-warming holiday season, whether you celebrate Hannukhah or Kwanza or Xmas or Druidfest or whatever.  Let's all remember, all you gots is your family and your health.  (sniff)

So from all the Strappos, Strappleys, Strappolinis, von Strapfschlosses and certain of the Hugheses, we wish you a merry Xmas and a happy & not too indigent new year!  (quadruple smilies!!!!)

 

 

On air merriment

So there I was somewhere in Jersey at 9:30 AM, after getting up at 5 to take the train and unsuccessfully doze my way to Morristown.  I was with Jon Krasney on his "Everything Money" show, and his gorgeous sidekick Heather, attempting to explain how I found my producers and the muddy boots theory of discovery.  To little avail.

Jon and Heather were sucking up the I Stefanini Monte de Toni Soave so fast that within 15 minutes Jon was slurring his words.  I had opened a L'Erpico Sangiovese from Piandibugnano, which they also happily sipped until the end of the show.  The hilarity and lack of focus reached a crescendo by the time 10:30 rolled around.

We finished the wine at breakfast at the Park Place Diner in Florham Park.  I said to the curious at the next table, "You should hire this man to be your financial advisor." 

And they say the people in Jersey don't know how to have a good time.

NB:  WTMR 1250 AM allows you to stream the program online.  But there is no podcast, sorry to say.  I'l be on again in about a month.  Maybe I should take one bottle instead of two?

Swallow or spit? Me now.

Call it a gay thing but I am a swallower.  Swallowing the wine is the only way to get something approaching a real sense of what a wine is or how someone might respond to it. 

That said, I appreciate the moderation and civic responsibility of those who commented that they spat at big events and so forth. Especially if you don't have the luxury of rolling outside to hail a cab.  Then there's the need to stay sharp when you have to do business.  OK, fine.  Still, not swallowing even a small amount deprives you of a solid and complete impression of the divine juice.

Here's a pet peeve of mine though.  The tradition of tiny pours that doesn't allow you to drink in, at least with your sense of smell, a wine in an impactful way.  (Sorry to use impactful.  I'm in a hurry and don't feel like getting all recondite and everything.)  Sure, you have to be careful with your samples -- they don't come free -- but if you're truly fascinated by a wine, the pourer should recognize this and help you out.

The rules change when you go to a wine luncheon or dinner.  I drink at these events, but very sparingly (most of the liquid I consume is plain old aqua pura), and I'm amazed when I see the old pros of the biz get so sloshed they can't put a complete sentence together.  Nothing wrong with tying a bun on, as we used to say in Olde New England, but in the privacy of your own home, please.

Strappo does radio

Important announcement!  Strappo will speak on a major media outlet tomorrow!

Strappo Domenico Hughes will talk with Jon Krasney of "Krasney on Everything Financial" on that New Jersey powerhouse, WMTR-AM 1250 on your dial or www.wmtram.com on your series of tubes which is the Internets.
 

Strappo will speak on many things, such as the joys and sorrows of starting a business in these drear times.  He will brighten the morning with wines that are available at some key shops in both Jersey and NYC.

Strappo: "I am smiling."

Those who swallow

It's fascinating to come across wine buyers and sommeliers who do not spit. They swallow. They believe that spitting doesn't give you the full experience of the wine -- not from an inebriating perspective but a taste/smell/mouthfeel perspective. It's especially important for them to swallow the wine they're evaluating in order to appreciate the customer's experience as well as it's possible to do so.

Has any one of you in the biz got a point of view on this? I'll share my 2 cents after you've put yours in.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Sold: One more dream

We received a heart-breaking email from one of our producers this morning.  Because of the state of the Italian economy, not to mention the credit shocks around the world, she has been forced to sell her organic/biodynamic farm to a bigger group.  In the sale will go her wine inventories as well. 

This lady and her husband made huge financial sacrifices, uprooted themselves from a fairly comfortable life in Rome and sought something clean and revitalizing in the unspoiled, cold-weather zone around Monte Amiata in southern Tuscany. 

I won't divulge any more till I get her permission to review our delight in her and her family, and in her wines.  The sad irony is that her top red wine was beginning to win some praise and would, I think, have eventually become a good niche seller.  Eventually being the fatal word.  Heaven can wait but creditors cannot.

Night falls

The last sooty streaks of light have gone dark in the southwest beyond the Empire State Building.  Tourists' flashbulbs still twinkle from the observation deck.  For some reason this sight makes me think of "It's a Wonderful Life."  Every time a tourist's flashbulb pops, a financier gets arrested. -- That's right, ZuZu.

Strappo is here.  Strappo is tacit.

Strappo has been here.  Strappo has muted himself to listen for further cracks and tears in the foundations and the fabric of society.  It gives him a cruel satisfaction to look across to the Lipstick Building, where Bernie Madoff's office is located, and to consider that in Palm Beach and on Park Avenue there is much cracking and tearing going on.  A bad thing for the Louis XVII chairs and the Fragonards, to be sure.  After years of seeing Bronx families huddled together in sleep on the 6 train early each morning, I feel no twinge of fellow feeling for the victims of Madoff.  Who, as the Times informed us today, is still walking around Park Avenue even if he has an ankle monitor on.  He will be confined to his own home on aforesaid avenue from 7 pm to 9 am, which means only early bird specials for him. He continues to wear his shit-eating grin.  I have a vague sense that his own personal fortune is quite safe somewhere far far away.

*****

Believe it or not, I wasn't on this green island called Earth in 1930 - 1931. I do have to wonder how it felt and tasted then, and if the feeling in the air was like today's.  The sense that no one can quite believe what's happening, this slo-mo slide that seems endless.   After all, it wasn't as though the Wall Street crash took place in October 1929 and the very next day we had a "third of a nation ill-clothed, ill-housed and ill-fed."  It happened far more gradually than that, over 3-4 years, and in fact some people fared pretty well if they had cash; prices dropped, as they are starting to do now. 

Someone commented to me today that the city seems strangely quiet and empty.  Get away from the usual tourist haunts and big midtown office blocks and the crowds and traffic are light.  The gloomy chill doesn't exactly entice people outside, either.  This is highly unusual a week before Christmas.  We're all making a virtue of necessity -- saying home to eat, passing up fantastic shopping bargains -- it's in to be frugal.  

We'll know it's really bad when the rent parties start.

Photo: Buffalo 2007 -- preview of the next five years?

*****

As to wine, the alleged focus of this blog, I got this depressing though predictable news today from the Wine&Spirits Daily news feed. 

How to say "LOL" in Italian

I continue to get visitors with offbeat, weird and sometimes appalling search terms.  A top one lately has been the one in the title.  I have to share this and a few more with you.  They could be filed under "What the -- ?!"

How to say LOL in Italian.  Answer: LOL.   

Mancia USA.  Italians continue to be appalled by the amount you must tip waiters and waitresses -- sorry, "servers" -- in the US. 

Booble and spark.  Excuse me?

Mariah Carey's bathroom.  But this is just a rented bathroom.

What does sapore mean in English.  It means flavor.  Does that mean we could call a mustache a salvasapore?

What possessed me blog.  What possessed them to come here?

How do you say Merry Christmas in Italian?  and:  What does Buon Natale mean?  Mr. Question, meet Miss Answer.

Silvana Mangano.  The beauteous late Ms. Mangano still has legions of fans around the world.

Soffocone / Blow job.  I suppose I have myself to blame.

Pussu.  This one often comes in from the Middle East and Asia, where the porn-searching seach terms always originate.  The reference is actually to a wine shop in Rapallo called Càntina du Pùssu (Cellar of the Well, literally).  A propos of nothing, in Liguria they seem to pronounce cantina like cawnting-a, accent on the first syllable. 

The [Formerly] Mean Streets

I'm spending a lot of time walking around neighborhoods that I usually just go through or under.  Door to door, noticing charming little restaurants and wine bars that somehow are off the radar, or perhaps I should say, off my radar.  For, to my dismay, I've become like every other New Yorker, provincially centered on my own few blocks, the ones I consider home territory.  (In my case that's anything from Lex east to the river, from 57th to 49th streets.)

It's funny, too, how you build mental walls between certain neighborhoods, so that you're surprised how short the distance is between them.  Last evening, as the rain pelted and the cold gusts shredded umbrellas, I was amazed to see how purely notional designations like "The Bowery" and "NoHo" and "The East Village" can be.  A block or two on the ground and you've magically passed from one to another.  At least you should get a sign that tells you "Welcome to The Bowery" or "Entering the East Village."  And it's not just me -- I looked up a restaurant on the Net and Google showed me many results, and in the top five there were at least three descriptions of its neighborhood, e.g., "The Flatiron District", "Greenwich Village" (!) and "Union Square."  The farther downtown you go, the worse it gets.

WHAT I REALLY MEAN TO SAY...

Calamine lotion a flaw?

Briefly, I must ask a perplexed question. 

Is the scent of calamine lotion a flaw in a wine?

Let me explain.

A producer in Piemonte sent a couple of samples.  I opened the Dolcetto last night and sipped it at opening and at intervals, with dinner too, for several hours.  The wine's depth and character were powerfully evident.  It was intriguing.  But I was slightly put off by a whiff of calamine lotion, a smell that dissipated somewhat over the course of the evening.  I just uncorked the bottle, and it remains.  It seems integral to the fruit, which is bluely berry-y, to coin a lovely phrase.  Odd.

Now, granted, this impression could be and probably is due to a personal quirk or the fact that I haven't felt too well since yesterday afternoon.  Perhaps a little gastrite, as they'd say in Italy. 

What I'd like to know is: does this particular aroma occur to anyone else when tasting and drinking wine? 

And if not, how much time have I got left?

Visitation from the spirit world

WARNING: ANOTHER DEEPLY PERSONAL BLOG ENTRY, ONE THAT VIOLATES EVEN THE REPOSE OF THE DEAD

December 6, 1999.  Nine years ago today Marcia Sue (Hebrew name Meysha Simcha) died of ovarian cancer.  Went into drug-induced coma on December 1.  Gentiles read psalms to her.  Our son engaged her in long, one-sided conversations all through the nights leading to her death. 

For myself, I was relieved. Numb and exhausted after five years of suffering and dread.  In the thankless job of caretaker, one that, trust me, I am not naturally equipped to fill.

The real grief came after the exhaustion had passed. After I had traveled to Santorini to cast her ashes in the sea, as I had promised.  Two years and many changes later.  Much loss and wandering, a sort of internal refugee.  (Tom Petty: you don't have to live like a refugee.  That's what you think, Tommy boy.)

Now time has done its yeoman's work and the living get on with it as they try to forget the wearying demands of the sick and dying, as they strive to live all they can before their time comes. 

Yet you can never forget the person you lived with for over half your life (so far), and whose love and care and fear and hope formed and directed you as you sought to live in and for a couple, a family.  It isn't possible to forget, to really, not for more than an hour or two.  Everything is measured against the life you built together, all the struggles you shared and your agonies and triumphs, such as they were.

And so, my reading friends, I confess to you that I sometimes often always wonder what Marcia would think of this or that, and how she'd react and how we'd talk about it.  Because, you know, we talked about everything in that long marriage -- almost everything.  Almost. 

I think what it would be like if she came to me as more than my own 3 AM imagining...

"Cadillac Records" and a Walk in December New York

I went to 42nd Street to see "Cadillac Records," which I had read about with some anticipation.  The blues and R&B artists that were the subject of the movie -- well, they're among the greats in my book, or should I say my iPod.  The pre-release stories smelled of PR placements.  You know, how Beyoncé played it down and dirty as Etta James.  Well, yes and no.  BK was good -- actually a lot better-looking than Etta was -- but weak writing and especially an unfocused story line undermined her histrionic efforts.  Not to mention those of Eamonn Walker (as Howlin' Wolf -- it was a wasted part) and many others in the cast.  Adrien Brody was all right as Leonard Chess, one of the two brothers who started the label.  The other was Phil Chess, whose character was magically subsumed into Leonard's role. 

Jeffrey Wright gets top billing and more than redeemed this film in his portrayal as Muddy Waters.

 

Jeffrey Wright as Muddy Waters with ersatz Rolling Stones

While the actors' musical renditions were excellent -- the music is excellent even when you listen to the Rolling Stones cover it -- the entire work was weakened by the hopscotching from topic to topic, issue to issue.  What I found most frustrating was the license that was taken with the chronology of the music, and of the artists' attempts to stay current, to stay on top.  So we had a raft of anachronisms like the early Chuck Berry singing "No Particular Place to Go."  This one was recorded and a hit after Chuck's incarceration for transporting a 14-year-old girl (actually a Navaho, not white) across state lines.

While Cedric the Entertainer, playing Willie Dixon, provided the rather clunky narrative, and made several attempts to link the rise and fall of Chess Records to the Civil Rights Movement, the film devolved into a standard smack-and-booze musical biopic, with Etta James and Len Chess as the tragic lovers.  This was one more disservice to the cast -- especially the brilliant Jeffrey Wright, whose Muddy Waters provided the movie with its conscience and heart.

So what if the film highlights the seminal talents of Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Little Walter and so many others?  Here are a couple of the original songs that the greats of Chess records made.

Download 02 If The Sea Was Whiskey by Willie Dixon

Download Little Queenie by Chuck Berry

*****

After the movie I walked uptown to visit a few wine bars.  I made the colossal mistake of going up Sixth Avenue (Avenue of the Americas to you greenhorns) and heading for Fifth Ave through Rockefeller Center.  What was I thinking?  My God, it was a madhouse.  If anyone had yelled Fire, the bloody crush would have totted up a thousand lives.  As it was, I bitched and moaned about it vocally and didn't even glance at the goddamn tree.

I was surprised to see and hear so many tourists from our own country.  The news has me believing half of America is living in their car.  But no, plenty of Us were wandering around and taking in the sights, maybe even more than Them, the world's affluent refuse swarming avidly over our shores 

Well, that's it.  Happy Whatever. 

It's time to make dinner, drink wine and write drunken ravings on mondosapore once again.  Can't wait, can you?

What to do with left-over samples?

As I mentioned the other day, I have this routine where I open the wines I'm taking out for the day, test them for cork taint, put plastic pouring spouts and caps on them, and trundle them around all day in an insulated Winecruzer.  Works well. 

But then there are all the leftovers.  For, of course, you cannot take out stale wine.  You want it to show at its very best.  So the leftovers build up.  A third of a bottle of this, a half of that, sometimes almost a full bottle -- it depends.  It becomes a problem because I hate waste. Especially when the samples represent such a huge accumulated expense. 

So we drink some. 

We throw some away -- the last glass or two in a bottle opened for a few days, that sort of thing.

But I can't tolerate that much alcohol. Not even I.  So I've taken to spreading the wealth.

A few bottles at a time to the young couple across the hall.  They do a great job of not wasting.  Maybe they should give some to their yappy little dog.

A bit to the French lady next door, who appreciates a change from the Beaujolais her late husband always bought, and which she still buys.  If he were still alive, I'd have a far easier time of using up the surplus.  We all miss you, J-P.

I'm thinking of handing it out in paper bags to the homeless people, whose numbers seem to be increasing at a good clip.  More thoughtful than cash, don't you think, during the holiday season?

Well, I'm fresh out of ideas. 

Any suggestions?

Blue-collar Xmas -- extended with comments

Christmas is a hard month (or more) to get through.  There's the ever more desperate commercialism that puts up decorations before Thanksgiving, the relentless outpouring of holiday songs, some of which sound like anthems of sentimentality from the ancient world (think the original Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer by Gene Autry), and the mawkish stories on the local news (the only time they cover the Bronx when there's not been a murder).

Not to mention everyone's personal parcel of disappointments marked "Do Not Open til Xmas!"

I don't celebrate Christmas any more.  It's a lot of bother.  I got rid of the decorations after my wife died.  My family's dispersed.  I can't stand the nostalgia and pain.  And I haven't felt any of the holiday's mystical pull since my own kids were little. 

Was it a mystical pull, though?  Was it about the miraculous?  The animals talking?  The light of peace and love lit in every heart?  The sense, almost the image, of a heavenly snow of grace on all creatures all over the world?  A truce in the struggle for survival, in the selfishness of the everyday?

I don't know.  Some part of me longs for it to be true even now.  But I can tell you, as a humble blue-collar kid, that Christmas was the one time in the turning year when even we could be as delighted and content as the rich.  When our foods and toys and gaudy decorations glowed in the early darkness and gave us a warmth that we could not afford the rest of the long winter.  The one time we did not feel alone in our anxiety, and the only time we could get a little loud and a little tipsy and not fear this would turn ugly, because we were with our friends and neighbors. 

I think these glimpses of memory and feeling are why the tasteful Christmases of today leave me cold.  You know, the all-white fairy lights, the color-coordinated decorations and mad accessorization of houses and yards.  The lifestyle-magazine-inspired recipes that make each dish into a little masterpiece that cries, "Me!! Me!!" instead of inviting you to dig in and make merry.  The excessive worry over wine pairings.  All materialistic devices meant to take the emotional sting out of the season's inevitable disappointments.

The best Christmas of my life was when I was about 10 or 11 years old.  My father was long gone, there were four of us kids -- three of them under 5 -- and we were getting by, just, on welfare.  Things were bleak indeed.  One evening about 10 days before Christmas, two of my mother's old friends from the phone company came by.  They said, "Norma, we've got a couple of things for the kids."  Then they unloaded

Affirmations

Now that all the wines are out of label jail and I have cases of samples stacked all over the place, I've been retasting some of the wines -- some of which I hadn't tasted in six months or longer.  I have to say, with relief, that they're even better than I remembered them.  I was worried about several.  A few are made, at least in part, with "international" grapes, so I wondered if they would now strike me as overblown or somehow "new world" in style. 

The answer is no.  They're clean, precise and beautifully balanced.  It helps that they're organic and even certified biodynamic.  It also helps that some are made under the guidance, in vineyard and cellar, of people like Luca D'Attoma and, of course, that emerging talent of the Mezzogiorno, Fortunato "Lucky" Sebastiano.

Still, there's always the fear of wine's not selling.  Is it too expensive for today's market?  Is the appellation too obscure or not prestigious enough?  Is the grape's name too hard pronounce?  Do we need a bunch of scores and rave reviews in order for someone to slow down and take the juice seriously?

Whether you're a small importer or a big one, inventory's inventory.  You have to move the product.  You have to recoup your investment so you can order more.  You have to be nimble enough to supply the stuff that will rock in the market.  You of course must be relentless.

It's risky.  It's hard work.  It's way fun.  

Punk wine salesmen

Yo! You know who the punks are? All them guys who drive around in, like, a nice new Audi and oooh lift maybe a case of wine and get to dump it within 60 seconds. Yeah man, that's mad easy. Soft. Sissy. In short, punk. Us urban wine-schleppers, we're anudder breed. Keeping margins razor thin, we don't need no stinking car. We haul our samples up + down the buses' steps, up and down the subway stairs. You know New York--how often do you see an escalator? And don't get me started wit' dem damn sidewalks, like particular down the cool cool cool places ("I wanna go") -- might as well be in Port-au-Prince for Chrissakes. But all that's cool. It gets you outdoors. In the sort of fresh air. You get your aerobic + weight workout. You start losing weight. You ache in the morning but it's the ache of the blessed. Working all the time. Yet "no one's gettin' fat but Mama Cass." Plus sometimes you get to meet someone quasi-famous, like JOE BUTLER, drummer for the Lovin' Spoonfull. Really, this beats teaching in the Bronx or doing ads for idiot healthcare clients. Peace out. Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Signs of the Times

This little item came into view last night (from Wines & Spirits Daily):

B-F [Brown Forman] says it has sold its Bolla and Fontana Candida Italian wine brands to Italian partner Gruppo Italiano Vini (GIV).  B-F Chief Paul Varga said the decision reflects the company's evolving portfolio strategy and its continued focus on its most profitable brands.  "We're proud of the work that our employees and partners placed behind the Italian wines, and we will certainly miss the brands," he said.

GIV is well-known in Italy for its massive output of cheap and generally ghastly supermarket wines.  I'd say Bolla has found its proper home.  GIV will doubtless adulterate Bolla wines even more for profitability's sake.  Danger, Will Robinson!

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Despite the severe economic downturn, small hand-sell wine shops in New York seem to be thriving.  Depending on location and clientele, the ceiling prices for brisk sales are $20, $25 and even $30 per bottle at retail. We hope this will last.

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On the other hand, there are signs of fraying here in NYC.

* More vacant storefronts every week.

* Fewer people in restaurants -- just 6 months ago they were packed all the time.

* A faintly perceptible uptick in crime and violence around the edges -- like the bus driver who was shot to death because he wouldn't give someone a transfer.  Unlike during the Great Depression, I predict, there will not be a spate of bank robberies.

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As for good news, there's plenty there if you have cash.  Even higher-end retailers are offering large pre-Christmas discounts on a wide range of items.  50% or greater in many cases.  People are buying the stuff up because they realize they're finally getting fair prices on otherwise ridiculously overpriced merchandise.  This, of course, will not last.




A scene from happier times..when Poppy Bush was in the House