It's been a stressful week here in Strappolandia.
Like, for example, I thought I was having a recurrence of 1993's heart problems. Cold sweats, pains all over (chestward as well), nausea, deathly paleness, gasping for breath.
No, 'twas just depression, anxiety, panic attacks. They act like heart attacks, sort of. The tests came back with HYPOCHONDRIAC written all over them.
Depressive hypochondriac at that.
Still, what with Joe Dressner having his well-aired brain tumor and Kermit Lynch plinking out folk ditties, I wondered what I could do to become recognized as an important, aspirational sort of wine importer. You know, I'm not getting any younger and even though this wine gig is a new thing for me, I've got lots and lots and lots of Life Experience, which ought to count for something, no?
I confess that I can't hang my hat on some magical mantra (sorry for the shoddy alliteration) like Natural Wines*. Cue the heavenly choirs.
Yummy Italian Wines You Can Afford doesn't stake out the high-road position. Autochthonous Italian Wines isn't exactly a crowd-pleaser either. As the implacable Jeff Mazen would say, "It's business!" Business. Certo, sell we must. We're selling. Things are good. Shipment may get waylaid or forgotten about, but things are generally pretty, pretty good.
But it's not just business. It's ego. It's pride. It's the deep human craving to have one of those Sally Field moments every now and then." So," I ask meself, "what can one do to create an aura of almost hieratic importance in the world of wine importers?"
I've come up with a sure-fire Five Point Program to stoke the mystique of Strappo, the Odysseus of wine importers.
1. Always wear the shades. Never take them off no matter how wretched the lighting. (Nice when you're bored and want to catch a cat nap.) It is necessary to cultivate that aura.
2. Always wear jeans, the cruddier and more threadbare the better. Preferably with expensive Italian shoes and no socks and a Brioni shirt hanging untucked, as with a discreet sneer at bourgeois niceties.
3. Always refer to Rudolf Steiner and Luigi Veronelli with casual reverence. It can be done. This will win over the nut cases and the ones who revere a man who made a career of staying for free at many interesting stately homes throughout the country.
4. Mention at least three obscure grape varieties in the first five minutes of any conversation, e.g., "You simply MUST try a Tintore. It is the future of Italy!" (A categorical pronouncement always wins adherents.)
5. Regale all and sundry with anecdotes from the field. Literally. Per esempio:
I slipped and fell deep into the winter mud of the steep vineyard. Raffaele smiled wisely and said, "Now you know what it is like to be a natural-grape farmer. Is never easy. We fight the bugs. We fight the mold. We fight the heat. We fight the cold. But our passion for our tradition, that is what make us carry on."
Doesn't it all bring a tear to the oulde eye? Doesn't it promise authentic bliss in the glass? Doesn't it make me look like the intrepid son of a bitch you aren't, you routine-bound slave to your under-water mortgage, three kids and SUV payments?
On such wee foundations grand reputations can be erected.
* The Peroni Nastro Azzurro beer I'm drinking now proclaims "Tutti Ingredienti Naturali" on the collar label. Boh.
Ities on a junket
I spent a half-hour at an event today. It was full of wine people and hangers-on. There was a press briefing, which I missed to my undying grief, at which Italian agriculture minister Luca Zaia and pezzi grossi from Veronafiere (Vinitaly) and other lobbying entities pimped the glories of Italian agribusiness.
After the press wanking I went with the flow and found a wee table to stake claim to a seat, wandered around looking for something to eat -- forget it, I don't stand in line for so-so hors d'oeuvres -- and sipped a glass of Bastianich Tocai (Friulano, I mean) as the greedy masses lumbered by.
I was snubbed by a couple of people (hi, Charles Scicolone, nice to see you too) but I mostly stared with bemusement at the merry Italian junketers who go from Del Posto to Marea to other high-end eateries, usually of the Italian persuasion, on their junkets to New York. Many so elegant, so beautifully tailored, so well-connected.
They looked delighted, no doubt because They Have Access to Mr. Zaia & Co., and because, well, for a few days they're doing New York which is of course equivalent to saying, "I've been in America. There is a profound understanding of our wines/oil/cheese/salami, and so everything is marvelous." Not to mention the pretty young assistants who travel with il Patrone, whom they undoubtedly call Dr. Max* behind his back. They serve to mitigate the tristesses and solitudes of travel in a distant land.
If these Italian joy-riders do deign to visit another city it's usually Miami (obvious as to why), LA (ditto), San Francisco (ditto). They'll do Boston, Philly, DC -- well, they're not far away and they're important parts of the Northeastern Megalopolis (60 million people or so, the population of Italy in a tighter, richer space), but they're no Vegas, that's for sure. (House rules always favor the big spenders in Washington, unlike in Vegas.)
Maybe a few of the less well-heeled, and those who are more tolerant of provincial cluelessness, will schlepp to Chicago or Dallas or -- ha! -- Cleveland. But those stalwarts are in a tiny minority, those who leave the cocoon of self-regard with all its comforts and transplanted values. What they experience is or should be a wake-up call, because:
People don't get your wines
They won't pay your ridiculous prices
They find you less charming than strange
You too often have an attitude that can be, oh, a tad off-putting
We all know understanding and appreciation go both ways.
You're the ones trying to sell something that people can pretty much do without. You first.
*Very old allusion to a scathing satire of the same title (patrone = boss) by Goffredo Parisi.
Posted on October 22, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (4)