The first wine book: A few years ago, on a lark, I counted the number of people I’d employed over the six-year run I had owning Primitivo – I was expecting a few hundred, easy, maybe as many as 300 – and was literally aghast to realize I’d written paychecks to over 700 different people. I mean, I know that restaurants are turnover heaven, but fuck, man, this is crazy. (One guy worked for me for a total of something like 9 minutes, no joke. He had an excellent resumé, the chef liked him, he interviewed well – the day he started work, he came in with a very obvious snit, changed into the restaurant’s whites, and started chopping something or other on his prep list. A few minutes of chopping, all the while muttering and cursing to himself, and I’m beginning to think that I need to get this guy out of here pronto before he goes postal and shoots up the kitchen, the staff and the customers … all of a sudden, he puts his knife down, says “this is BULLSHIT” and walks out, still in the whites. He had the gall to come the next day and demands to be paid for his 9 minutes, about $1.45. My reply: “Where’s the uniform you stole?” He never came back.) Employees were always the biggest worry – will people show up? will they be sober? will they do their job? will they manage to get through a night without embarrassing the business? I had a great, small core of people – some of whom worked for me from the day I opened to the day I closed – but I also had my share of wastrels, scoundrels, thieves and the just plain lazy. Plenty of these I fired almost immediately, many hung on for a few weeks or months before disappearing – but a few managed to hang on long enough, doing just enough to cling to their job until the “wham-o” moment of understanding what it took – a kind of Bourdainian clouds parting, the shine of heavenly light and the sudden induction into mysteries of “le système D” – to eventually turn themselves into badass think-on-their-feet hardworking professionals. Of these I am the most proud. It was with these people, I realized, the ones who were resistant, initially, to learning anything, that I learned how to teach about wine – how I took people whose idea of a good time was takeout pizza, Fantasy Island reruns and a box of Gallo “Hearty Burgundy” and turn them into people who not only could speak intelligently about the differences between, say, Volnay and Pommard, but could also appreciate them enough to realize that those Fantasy Island reruns and pizza were much better served by a small-lot Zinfandel, a quaffable Monastrell from eastern Spain, a Grenache-based Côtes-du-Rhône, or a well-made Chianti, preferably from the Colli Senesi. Along the way of educating all those palates (kicking and screaming the whole way, some of them), I realized I’d learned something about and had a talent for getting people to trust their own tastes and impulses – I mean, heck, if after all the wine education you got as a server at Primitivo you still preferred that aforementioned Hearty Burgundy and could articulate why, well, then, all power to you. I’ll just be over at the end of the bar, drinking that Brunello by myself.
The second book grew out of the love I’ve come to have for the region, people and wines of Barolo. This tiny area in Northern Italy is where, after a life of tasting, I’ve ended up – I went through all the usual phases: Bordeaux, California Cabs, Burgundy and Pinot Noir, Syrah from the Northern Rhône, German Riesling, Zinfandel, Amarone, Rhône Rangers from southern California, Loire wines, Brunello, Super-Tuscans, Aussie Shiraz, Rioja, Alsace, blah blah blah. As I’ve aged, I’ve come to appreciate finesse and balance over power and extraction. Big wines speak loudly and forcefully, can dominate a conversation and even be occasionally charming and fun. Think of the guy at a party (we all know him) a little balding, bit of a paunch, wearing the most godawful loud Hawaiian shirt, speaking in a voice that makes sure everyone in the room knows exactly what he has to say and not letting anyone else get a word in edgewise, bit of a fake tan, overgesticulating to covey youthful vigor and strength … that’s what I think of most Cabernet Sauvignon-based wines. Sheesh, guy, I understand that you’ve a need to overcompensate for something, but do you have to let the whole frickin’ world know? I would much rather be with someone, or something, who allows for the ebb and flow of conversation – great Pinot allows this, as do some Grenache-based wines from Chateauneuf-du-Pape and Priorato, and I will admit a particular weakness for traditionally made Brunello and Barolo’s sibling Barbaresco. But at the end of the day, the thing that excites me most in wine is Barolo. There is nothing in my mind or to my taste that combines the purity, complexity and focused power in the same way that well made Barolo does. (Caveat: I am most emphatically NOT talking about the overoaked and overextracted wines of some Barolisti – these are wines that, sadly, that reflect neither the terroir or the subtlety of Barolo. I’m talking of the wines that, whether made in modern or traditional style, still reflect the basic characteristics that make Barolo, and Nebbiolo-based wines generally, so unique.) Over the last 15 years or so of visits to region, I’ve only grown more certain of this love for Barolo – and this fall I am working with Luciano Sandrone in his cellars, learning to make the wine. It will be an interesting adventure, I am sure.
The last book – a kind of police mystery – I want to set along the Italian-Swiss border in the valley where part of my family comes from. It’s a place I know as well as any, and have been hiking and climbing those mountains since I was young boy. Borders, boundaries and transitions fascinate me, and the alpine borders are some of the most heavily trafficked for contraband – narcotics, humans and all sorts of stolen property – and it seems like a character is growing in my mind whose stories I would want to hear. I’ll leave it up to you to see if you’re as interested in him or her (I haven’t yet decided!) once I finish it.
Comments? Suggestions? Criticisms?
As a complete aside: I’ve been reading like a fiend since arriving. I’ve finished:
Marilynne Robinson: Housekeeping
Cormac McCarthy: No Country for Old Men
Manuel Vazquez Montalban: Tattoo
Open Now: Per Petterson: Out Stealing Horses
On Deck: Steve Erickson: Zeroville
Playing right now: Amy Winehouse, Back to Black, “Tears Dry on Their Own.” I have to admit I am really enjoying the trashy-self-destructive-sixties-junkie-soul sound.
The Altares invited me over for Sunday midday dinner. Elio and Lucia have to be two of the sweetest and most genuine and generous people I have ever met. Silvia always makes me feel right at home by teasing me mercilessly (I grew up with three younger sisters …). Duncan and Tes, an Australian and a Japanese working the season with the Altares are at the table as well, and are made to feel just as at home (these guys, by the way, rock - more on them later). There are cheeses and cured meats to start, then a bollito of beef shoulder with vegetables from the family garden. Silvia makes and amaaaaaaaazing cake for dessert. It is so lovely to have friends like these in far corners of the earth.
Finally went to the Supermercato. In the fridge: 2 bottles rosé, Robiola cheese, a packet of raviolini, butter, yogurt, five bottles mineral water, greens, carrots, apples, parmesan, local salami, blood orange juice, coca-light. Starting to feel like home.
