Tag: Florence

What I’m Drinking This Week: A Loire Favorite, British Bubbles, a Carmignano Riserva, and More

Tasting wines on a daily basis brings abundant opportunity for assessment, reassessment, discovery, and reinforcement (“that wine is as good as I thought it was,” or, “I did not notice such stark acidity in my previous tasting of this Riesling”). It is an illuminating process.

The other day I opened a bottle of Domaine Guion Bourgueil “Cuvée Prestige” — 2018 vintage — with comparison as the goal … that, and enjoying a glass of something that I liked immensely back in April of 2020. I wanted to see how the ’18 had changed in the bottle between tastings. Little, was my answer; it was still one of my favorite wines of the year, and I look forward to drinking more of this wine come 2022 (and beyond).

Stéphane Guion knows how to make fine Cabernet Franc. (Courtesy Domaine Guion)

Stéphane Guion is the man behind this bottle — the fruit comes from vines averaging 50 to 70 years of age planted on a domaine that’s been certified organic since the 1960s — and works from his base in Bourgueil, in the Loire Valley. I first tasted wines from this producer back in the 1990s, at a dinner in New York, and recall that they were inexpensive and delicious.

Cabernet Franc is one of my favorite things to drink, and this one is among my top picks. Low alcohol, lovely acidity — cellar this one for a decade and thank me when you open it in 2031 — with wonderfully ripe, soft tannins. You’ll appreciate violet and strawberry aromas, plus some spice and tobacco. In the mouth, dark fruit and subtle black pepper. Pair this with everything from grilled asparagus to lamb, sausage, and seafood stew. You can find this wine for around $17 at select outlets, including Chambers Street Wines.

Buy as much of this as you can.

The lesson — or one lesson — to be had from the act of daily tasting is, aside from the pleasure of it, development of the palate. While taste is subjective, objectivity is vital to individuals engaged with wine. Taste, taste, then taste some more.

Another wine I sampled recently: the 2018 Aperture Cabernet Sauvignon. Jesse Katz, the young winemaker behind this bottle, has for a good while been the recipient of accolades for his approach, one that he began working on (if originally through osmosis) while traveling as a young boy with his father, photographer Andy Katz, in Bordeaux, Burgundy, and other wine-growing regions. The younger Katz was the first winemaker to be included in the “Forbes 30 Under 30” list, and Wine Spectator named him a “Rising Star.” He made wine for Justin Timberlake. And if all of that does not impress, his wines, including his Devil Proof Malbecs, will.

Jesse Katz made this.

First, know that the 2018 Cabernet Sauvignon from Aperture Cellars is drinking well now. If you were to open a bottle of it this evening and pair it with a grilled ribeye you would have no regrets. However, this wine will also reward patience. Drink a bottle now, and put one (or a case) away for eight years or so.

The Alexander Valley AVA is the source of this wine, which is 86 percent Cabernet Sauvignon, 7 percent Malbec, 5 percent Merlot, and 2 percent Petit Verdot. It retails for $70. The Cabernet here is sourced from four volcanic-soil sites on hillside slopes, and the wine is unfiltered, unfined, and un-acidified.

By the way, if you can get your hands on some of Katz’s Malbec, do so.

Do give this bottle some time to breathe … decant it for a few hours. The cassis, tobacco, and coffee notes will please your olfactory senses, and the dark fruit and slight spice and vanilla will linger in the mouth.

A sparkling wine with a British accent. (Courtesy Nyetimber)

Let’s turn to some sparkling wine from England — West Sussex and Hampshire to be exact. It’s from Nyetimber, and it’s a multi-vintage cuvée (Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Meunier) that retails for $55. I consider this one of my go-to sparkling wines at that price level, and like to keep one chilled at all times.

The Nyetimber Classic Cuvée is aged for an average of three years, and its toasty quotient is remarkable. Brioche, frangipane, a slight nuttiness … all of that is there, plus fine bubbles and an elegance that makes this wine more than ideal for celebrations, anniversaries, and brunch. Would I pair it with oysters or salmon? Yes, and if toro and ebi were served to me I’d be happy drinking this wine with them as well.

Nyetimber as a producer has put a lot of money and thought into reducing its carbon footprint, and I like that. Thirty percent of its estate holdings is comprised of “nonproductive” hedgerows, sheep from a nearby farm graze the grass and other ground vegetation in vineyard plots — their waste supplies nutrients to the soil, and their eating habits reduce the use of tractors and lower carbon emissions. I am a firm believer in the adage that every little effort counts, and these types of practices at Nyetimber (and at many other producers) add up.

The Contini Bonacossi family has been making wine for a long time.

Finally this week, a red wine from Italy that spoke to me with confidence and promise. It’s from Tenuta di Capezzana, an estate whose founding dates back to 804 A.D. It’s situated 12 miles west of Florence, and is a leading name in the Carmignano region, the history of which is fascinating.

In 1716, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Cosimo III de’Medici, granted the region official and legal status; today, Carmignano DOCG regulations stipulate that Sangiovese must be at least 50 percent of the blend, and allow 10 to 20 percent of Cabernet Sauvignon or Cabernet Franc, as much as 20 percent Canaiolo Nero and 5 percent Mammolo and Colorino, and up to 10 percent white grape varieties, such as Trebbiano or Malvasia.

To the wine: It’s the 2015 Trefiano Carmignano Riserva DOCG, and it has a suggested retail price of $59. It’s bottled during the best vintages only, “best” as deemed by the winemaker, and it’s aged for 18 months in French oak (10 percent new oak) and an additional year in bottle.

The 2015 is 80 percent Sangiovese, 10 percent Cabernet Sauvignon, and 10 percent Canaiolo, a blend put together well by Benedetta Contini Bonacossi (Capezzana is owned by the Contini Bonacossi family). For those of you who are interested in names, Trefiano refers to the 15th-century villa purchased in the 1920s by the Contini Bonacossi clan. Five hectares of vineyards that surround the villa are the source of the grapes used to make this wine.

Deep ruby in color, the Trefiano greets the nose with dark cherry and cedar. This is a wine with serious intent, and I loved it with lamb. Steaks, wild boar, and sausages would be other great pairings. Ripe tannins never jar the drinker, and the tobacco notes on the palate are delightful. I’m looking forward to revisiting this vintage in five years.

I also sampled three other offerings from Capezzana, bottles at different price points; each is worth consideration.

I began with the 2018 Barco Reale di Carmignano DOC, at $18 a great value. It’s 75 percent Sangiovese, 15 percent Cabernet Sauvignon, 5 percent Canaiolo, and 5 percent Cabernet Franc, and is fermented in stainless steel and aged in Slavonian oak. Drink now.

Next, the 2016 Villa di Capezzana Carmignano DOC ($30). It’s considered the flagship wine of the estate; 80 percent Sangiovese and 20 percent Cabernet Sauvignon, fermented in French oak and aged for a year in the barrel. Drink now-2026.

Finally, the 2013 Ghiaie della Furba Toscana IGT ($51). As with the Trefiano, this wine is made in the best vintages only. “Ghiaie” refers to the gravelly soils near the Furba, a stream on the estate. It’s 40 percent Cabernet Sauvignon, 35 percent Syrah, and 25 percent Merlot. Delicious now, and is still full of aging potential.

Next week, I’ll be sitting down with, among other selections, some California Zinfandel, a Prosecco, and a Malbec from the Temecula Valley AVA.

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Lardo Takes Me to Florence, Manti to Istanbul: That’s a Great Week in Houston Dining

You’re walking around Florence, taking in as much as you can, running your hands across the stones of buildings, wondering about the people who lived and loved and died in them a thousand years before you were born. You imagine all the wild boar roaming in the hills above the city, think about feasts of yore at which cinghiale starred, you wind down a narrow passage near the river and find yourself outside the restaurant with the rabbit dish you love. At your table, you order a quartino of Nebbiolo and accept a small plate of lardo, a gift from the owner. Outside, the sun begins to set. Inside, the evening begins, deliciously.

Lardo. If you’ve never experienced the pleasure that is lardo melting on your tongue, get a table at Houston restaurant Charivari (no, it’s not the only place in the city that serves lardo, but it’s certainly home to some fine examples of it) and ask for it. The chef, Johann Schuster, will be happy to oblige. Here’s a look at a platter of the food that I sampled recently at the midtown establishment — and I find myself wanting more as I write this.

Lardo, two ways, and tongue head cheese.

Read about Schuster’s lardo here, and don’t delay if you want some, because this is not mass-produced salumi. (I write about a great dish at Nancy’s Hustle as well in the piece. The manti served at the new — and popular — restaurant in Houston’s EaDo area, took me back to Istanbul, as the lardo transported me to Florence. Not bad for a week in Texas.)

Finally, I give you sausage, two made with skill by Schuster, which I tasted on the lardo evening. There’s a rich, decadent blood sausage, and a garlic sausage that is as good as any I’ve ever had. You’ll love them.

Blood sausage and a hearty garlic sausage, as served at Charivari

We Will Meet Again … in Firenze and Houston

Patricia Baglioni, Angela Shah, and James Brock share an evening in Houston.

Patricia Baglioni, Angela Shah, and James Brock share an evening in Houston.

In 2010 I took a trip to Italy, touching down in Florence. I’m not sure what prompted me to stay in Hotel Hermes, but I’m glad I did, because I met and became friends with the woman who owned it then, Patricia Baglioni. For me, there was instantaneous kinship, and she told me about her favorite places in that beautiful city and fed me well. I left Florence after four days, headed to Umbria, but Patricia, and her kindness, stayed with me, and I vowed to return to Florence to see her again. (You’ll find here a record of some of my experiences during that spiritual trip.)

Little did I know at the time that I would not have to return to Italy to see Patricia again … I had only to move to Houston. Seems she has relatives here, and earlier this month visited them, as she does every June. We met for several meals, and it was as if time picked up immediately from where we left it in Italy. The conversation has always been effortless, whether we are discussing the World Cup – Ms. Baglioni supports Mexico and Italy (see her photo with Gianluigi Buffon in the post linked to above) – politics, or art. I was happy to introduce Angela to Patricia, and we shared a bottle of Nebbiolo and some pasta. Into one’s life certain people enter as if by grace. Cherish them, because they are rare finds.

Now, time to plan that return trip to Florence.

An Italian winter’s tale of grace

I was in Florence for a few days, a stopover of sorts before I traveled on to Umbria. I was staying at the Hotel Hermes, hosted by Patricia Baglioni, the wonderful woman who owns the small hotel. She steered me toward her favorite places in the city, restaurants and otherwise, and told me some fine stories about her childhood in Texas and Mexico and coming to Italy to study and falling in love with an Italian man whose family owned hotels. He sadly died a while ago, too young, but not before they had a marriage full of adventure and travel and great meals. (Her husband was a hunter, and she showed me some photographs of him with wild boar and pheasant and deer, all of which ended up on their family table.)

Patricia Baglioni, the consummate hostess of Hotel Hermes. (Photo courtesy of Patricia Baglioni)

Patricia Baglioni, the consummate hostess of Hotel Hermes, and a guest. (Photo courtesy of Patricia Baglioni)

It was in the middle of December, and Florence was beautiful. Florence is always beautiful. It was to be my final day in the city, and the next morning, the 17th, I would depart for Umbria and Brigolante, the agriturismo near Assisi that Angela and I would use as home base for the winter holiday season. I went for a walk along the river after breakfast, over the bridge and up toward the Uffizi. For lunch I had coniglio fritto at Al Tranvai, a small place I had read about in Saveur. If you are in Florence you must go, and please order the rabbit. I spent the afternoon wandering, no destination in mind, and ended up at a bar run by an American, a guy who had fallen in love with the city when he and his girlfriend had passed through two years earlier. He told me she had left him to return to California. He thought about her rarely, he said.

Rabbit and zucchini at Tranvai.

Rabbit and zucchini at Al Tranvai.

In the kitchen at Sostanza. (Look at the bottom right corner of image and you'll see a perfect piece of beef.)

In the kitchen at Sostanza. (Look at the middle-right section of the image and you’ll see a perfect piece of beef.)

For dinner I went to Trattoria Sostanza, and, of course, had a bistecca. (I will revisit Sostanza, both corporeally and on Mise en place. It is deserving of that, and more.) Communal tables, two seatings nightly, excellent food. I had a view of the kitchen, and my steak was cooked semi-vertically on a grate over charcoal. It is in the top 5 on my best steak list. After dinner I walked along the river and admired the duomo, thinking of Dante and Beatrice.

I was excited about my drive to Umbria, and after a late breakfast at the hotel headed to the rental agency to pick up my Fiat. As I walked past the window of the German shoemaker snowflakes began to fall, wispy flakes that melted as soon as they landed on the street. I ambled along, not quite wanting to leave Florence behind. I stopped at several food stores along the way, and decided to have an early lunch: fried squash blossoms, a few slices of ham, and a half-bottle of Montepulciano.

Blossoms from a vegetable on a snowy day

Blossoms from a vegetable on a snowy day

While I sat eating the blossoms at a table covered in butcher paper the snow grew heavier, the sky darker. The thin slices of ham melted on my tongue and the red wine warmed me. People rushed along the sidewalk, looking up at the sky. I bought a few tins of pâté and some sausages and cheese for the trip, then continued on to the rental agency.

The car, a white Fiat 500, was small, but just big enough for Angela and me and a bag or two. I drove the short distance back to the hotel and loaded my things, bid farewell to Patricia, then took off toward the river. It was snowing heavily, but I had no worries, and entered the traffic stream, the radio playing a Count Basie number.

Five minutes later it all came down. Snow mixed with ice, heavy. The little car’s windshield wipers struggled to keep up, and the traffic came to a standstill. I endured at least an hour moving at a crawl. We were headed up an incline, toward the autostrada, out of the city, but nature had something else in mind: by the dozens, cars began pulling to the side of the road, unable to make it up the hill. The snow grew heavier, and I thought to myself that I was glad I had brought my hiking boots. I parked my car in the best location possible, its nose still jutting into the street. I, along with other drivers and passengers, emerged into the icy early afternoon.

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I began walking down the narrow, icy street and saw cars parked on both sides of it, two wheels on the sidewalks, two on the one-way thoroughfare. The neighborhood in which I interrupted my journey was just outside one of Florence’s old gates, and as I walked down the hill toward the massive structure I began thinking about where I would spend the night. My first thought was to phone Patricia at the hotel, but when I took my iPhone from my pocket I discovered I had no credit remaining. I kept walking and soon saw a restaurant to my right; it was closed, but lights were on in the dining room and I saw a man in a chef’s jacket standing behind the bar. I knocked on the door and he motioned for me to come in; he was on the phone, and pointed to a bar stool. As I approached him I noticed a group of people sitting at a large table at the rear of the restaurant and realized I had interrupted family meal.

A family meal in a warm place.

A family meal in a warm place.

I sat and looked at the wines on the bar, and a minute or so later my host put down the phone. We shook hands, and he said his name was Paulo. He mentioned the ice storm, and I told him I was stuck, had been forced to park my car on the side of the road, and that I was looking for a place to spend the night. I asked if I might use his phone, but he had another idea: he began calling friends who lived in the neighborhood, asking if anyone could put me up for the evening. I tried to stop him, to tell him I would call back to the hotel in which I had been staying, but he ignored me. After a few calls he put the phone down and smiled, offering me a glass of wine. “Don’t worry, a friend has a bed and breakfast one street over, and he has a free room. He told me I could have it for 35 euros.” Perfect, I said, and we toasted the weather.

He then asked me to follow him, and we walked toward the kitchen, stopping at the occupied table. He introduced me to his father and mother, and some of his employees. His father, who had the year before handed over the kitchen to Paulo, had worked in a restaurant since he was 17, and had opened his own, this one, 15 years earlier. I shook hands with everyone and admired the food on their plates, refusing an offer to eat with them … they had already done enough.

Paulo wrote an address down, then told me that I should come back that evening for dinner. How could I refuse? I was reluctant to leave the warm restaurant, but wanted to find my room before it grew dark. I walked back up the hill to the car and retrieved a few things, then followed the directions Paulo had given me.

It was indeed one street over, one snow-filled street. I saw the number and rang the bell, and was met by a man in his 20’s, who welcomed me in and showed me the room. It was wonderfully decorated, warm, large bed, tasteful fabrics – dark green and an interesting shade of red. He told me his mother and he owned the building and that they were glad to do a favor for Paulo. He seemed to be in a hurry, so I thanked him and walked him to the door. I opened my Mac and found an email from Patricia; she wanted to make sure I was safe, and I told her my tale. She laughed and made me promise to stay at Hotel Hermes when I next was in Florence.

I put my bag away and saw a bottle of wine on the table near the window, poured myself a glass, and sat down, watching the snow fall. (The image of that snow at that moment is in my mind still, and when I wish to evoke a feeling of peace I can conjure it up. I see the snow fall, watch it accumulate on the balcony rail outside the window, silently.)

My room with a snowy view.

My room with a snowy view.

After enjoying another glass of wine I showered, then traced my steps back to the restaurant, which was full of people. Paulo had reserved a place for me at a table along the wall, and I sat, enjoying a perfect view of the entire room. The barstools were occupied, and all but one table was full. I ordered some prosecco and looked at the menu, my eyes landing immediately on wild boar, one of my favorite proteins. They were serving Cinghiale al Ginepro, and I ordered it. A leg of a fine animal ­– Paulo told me they had marinated it in red wine – that had once roamed woods not far from Florence. I was deciding on a first course when a waiter came out with a bowl of pasta and set it before me. I looked down and saw truffles. Tartufo. White truffles, alba madonna. Shaved truffles on top of thin, wide noodles, in a rich sauce that tasted of olive oil and shallots. I lowered my head over the dish and inhaled, and tears came to my eyes.

Those tears were not caused by sadness or tiredness, but were provoked by a profound sense of gratitude, a feeling that was almost holy, sacred. I was sitting among strangers, in a warm restaurant whose chef had housed and fed me. That morning I had checked out of a hotel whose owner, concerned about me in the ice storm, called to make sure I was safe, a woman with whom I still correspond and will surely see next time I am in Firenze. I drank and I ate, and thought of nothing else.

Yes, the truffles and pasta were sublime, as truffles almost always are. The wild boar I remember still: gamy (as I like it), rich, perfectly cooked. But on that evening in Florence, as the snow fell and I sat at an unfamiliar though perfect table surrounded by happy people talking and enjoying their food and wine, I was the recipient of kindnesses that outshone even the finest truffle.

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