Leun Justine van der - Passion on the vine: a memoir of food, wine and family in the heart of Italy

BROADWAY BOOKS | NEW YORK

CONTENTS

For Alma Tschantret

Image 1

Chapter 1

ROME

WED LEFT BEHIND the souths sharp ocean inletsits black volcanoes pasted against orange evening skies, its lemon groves and crumbling villagesfor Rome. We followed the A1 Autostrada del Sole, the Highway of the Sun, which cuts through the country, straight from Naples to Milan. It was a two-hour drive, first through lush hills; then through flat farmlands, the standard horse vendors displaying their grazing wares for motorists; then past the withered vineyards, the smoky power plants, the stoic gray roadside corporations, the brightly colored Iperstores, the worker-free construction zones of crushed asphalt and detours, the elaborate Autogrills perched like bridges above the road, the Gypsy camps. We drove by it all and then through the concrete tunnels until we hit the capital, rising up around us in the form of shops and apartments, of ancient statues, baroque palaces, sweeping piazzas. My brother Sal and I had been on the road for days and la citt eterna was to be our last hurrah before our return to the States.

Our roles in the rental car were always clearly defined: I was the driver, he the navigator. We were finishing up a whirlwind wine-buying trip, so we were pale and exhausted. I own a wine store in New York City and there wasnt a day that passed without some uninformed individual, a dreamy look on his face, telling me I had the worlds most wonderful job. Such people thought it was glamorous, floating across the Italian peninsula, sipping wine poured from fine bottles, sleeping in villas on sweeping vineyard grounds. They couldnt be blamed for the misconception; God knows, Id thought the same thing when I was a kid.

It may be a wonderful job, but it isnt always glamorous. I had slept in opulent villas and dined with royals, but usually it went like the most recent trip: in the last seven days, Sal and I had hit up almost sixty wineries and tasted countless bottles of wine. Wed woken up at six and gone to bed at four. Wed eaten at truck stops and at two-star restaurants, gobbled down panini in the car, and been forced by our producer-hosts into many long, multicourse, pasta-laden, oil-drenched mealsthe kind of experience youd savor if you did it twice a year, not twice a week. Sometimes it was kind of like working in the worlds best cupcake bakery: no matter how much you love cupcakes, you dont want five a day, every day for a week. Sal and I had stayed in some moldy roadside hotels, a couple of simple rooms-for-rent, and one medieval castle; had tasted virtual vinegar and the most beautiful wines in the country. Id spent time listening to a Russian scam artist who guided wine tours and Id sat in the office of a wine producer whose family had at one time been commissioned by a king. Wed been social hostages, privileged to be included at the family table but also dragged to Italian discos filled primarily with men in tight pants. This was what a typical tasting trip was like, racing around the country, trying to find the best wines for my clients and for myself.

Sal didnt officially work with me, but he came along because he loved food, he loved wine, he loved the excitement. Round, rosy-cheeked Sal, his head topped with swiftly disappearing red hair, was the reason I was in this business in the first place. He was the one working as a chef, when he was only eighteen, in the little French restaurant in upstate New York, making beef bourguignon and duck lorange and chicken cordon bleu to pay for my clothes and my food and my bicycle. He was the one who hired me on as a dishwasher at that restaurant when I was twelve. I would stand on a stool and scrub plates after school, gazing at him with nearly religious devotion as he, baby-faced, clad in a crisp white collarless shirt, yelled at his staff to keep all the knives in place. He was the one who mocked a sous-chef whod bungled the carving of a leg of veal.

I bet you my little brother can do a better job than you can, Sal said to the defeated man. I looked up from my dishes and tried to suppress my joy. I was being given the opportunity of a lifetime, threefold: I could humiliate an adult, impress my brother, and cut meat. Get over here, Sergio. Show them.

He was also the reason I had the thick scar on my left thumb, because as I expertly butchered the shank, I looked about the room proudly, lost track of what I was doing, and sliced my finger to the bone.

Despite the injury, I had gone on to make a career of wine and food, while Sal had branched off into business. Now, in addition to running a software consulting company out in the Arizona desert, he acted as my secretary on trips to Italy. He organized my schedule and kept me company in the car, and his payment was a series of excellent meals and lots of wine, both famous and obscure. Over the past fifteen years, wed drunk wine from botti in Barbaresco, from cement tanks on the Amalfi coast, and from underground urns in freezing Friuli. Wed gambled until dawn at a Slovenian casino, watched an unimpressive show at a blue-collar strip joint in Turin, and spent loud nights with our extended family in the southern Italian ghetto from which we had emigrated long ago. And now we were on our way into Rome for a final meal before our departure for America, and for the most important tasting of the tripand perhaps of our lives.

Id had other plans. I wanted to take Sal out to a thank-you dinner at Don Alfonso 1890, a restaurant in SantAgata sui Due Golfi, near the coastal village of Sorrento, where wed gone on vacation when we were kids living in Naples. Don Alfonso was a famous place owned by a well-regarded culinary family, the Iaccarinos. They had long been considered masters of the regional cuisine. A few years earlier, Id eaten remarkable, refined versions of the areas most traditional dishes, all made from ingredients grown on the family farm.

Id been talking it up to Sal and we were excited when we sat down in the sleek white dining room. We didnt even bother with the menu. I like to let culinary professionals do their thing: I told the waiter that wed have whatever the chef recommended. We got a bottle of Mastroberardino Taurasi Riserva and waited. We were expecting lamb that had grazed nearby; spicy olive oil; spaghetti with tomato, basil, garlic; fish caught in the bay; local herbs. Then the first dish was set upon the table.

Sal and I looked at each other. Pineapple and foie gras? When the pasta arrived, it involved cheese foam, not basil. The main meat course was laced with curry. This was not the menu I remembered. The food was excellent, but Naples is about eggplant, lemons,